Archive of Our Own

I am awfully greedy;

I want everything from life.

— Simone de Beauvoir

♡

“What’re we talking about now?”

Harry stumbles more than he does gracefully slide back into his seat, which is a rounded, red leather booth tucked into the far end of his and his coworkers’ favorite gay bar, Love Potion. But, with two Cranberry Kinks pushing a hefty serving of vodka through his system on top of the new boots he’s still breaking in, he can’t be too heavily faulted for his lack of grace.

He looks on to his happy little work circle of fellow queers, comprised of Rae, a nonconforming beta in media outreach; Megumi, a sapphic-identifying omega co-leading the legal department; and Char, a bisexual omega and junior talent scout. They’d taken him under their collective wing when his internship at a but big name entertainment management corp started eight months prior, and he’s still just as doted on by them as he was at the beginning despite his recent promotion to full-on employment status in the legal faction.

He’s nothing if not grateful, though—not just for the job title at his young age, but for the fact he’s found such a fun and supportive group of friends.

Who are, quite notably, also rather open about certain aspects of their lives.

As he waits for a response, Char and Megumi poorly stifle their laughter and Rae turns to him, quickly shaking their head, expression stern. Which—should tell him enough. That he may not want to know, given their track record.

“What’s so funny?” he asks, anyway.

Char hides behind Megumi’s shoulder to hide her hysterics and Rae covers their face in their hands still shaking their head, as Megumi, pleased as punch, answers: “Squirting.”

Harry can only blink at them, confused, bathed under the pinkish light being cast upon them from a heart-shaped lamp hanging overhead.

Splutters, “How was… I was in the loo for two seconds—”

“Don’t tell me you’re a prude, now, H,” Megumi teases.

Bearing a devilish grin, she twirls one painted finger around the swirly straw sitting in the vibrantly green cocktail she’s nursing, which has since given her lips a faint lime tint. Char reappears from behind Megumi and wipes under her eyes with her fingers, breathless with laughter. Rae comes out of hiding and, still partially obscured by their hands, mouths, told you.

Harry ignores this and scrunches his nose discontentedly in Megumi’s direction. Just because he hasn’t gotten laid in, well, a time period he’d rather not disclose, doesn’t mean he’s a prude. They should all know this by now.

Like—it’s not his fault he’s a romantic soul with decent standards who’s in turn mostly averse to hook-ups, so he hasn’t a plethora of stories to divulge upon them. Or his fault that Megumi and Char are both in long-term relationships and have sex stories to spare (sometimes unfortunately so, hence the track record) so he really has no chance at leveling the playing field.

“Please, you know me better than that,” he tuts. “I only want to know how we so quickly went from talking about that new Ethiopian place by work to… to that.”

“Easy: the other night Soph picked up some takeaway from there—fucking scrumptious, by the way, we’ve all got to go together some time—and then later in the night, well,” Megumi’s brows raise for just a beat, “I think you can put two and two together,” with a playful shrug of her shoulder, coy smirk.

Rae waves a dismissive hand in her direction. “And now we’re all just going along with it.”

He’s heard plenty about Char’s boyfriend’s impressive knot and his surprisingly submissive, pliable tendencies in the bedroom—at least, considering he’s a beefy alpha gym-rat archetype who postures to an almost obnoxious degree when he’s come out clubbing with them—and all sorts of pleasuring techniques to use on other vulva owners courtesy of Megumi’s partner’s sex workshops, but they’ve never trekked into this territory before.

(In all fairness, though, he may have just missed out. There’s a joint history here he’s a few years behind on.)

It feels appropriate to ask then, “Okay, so, was it you, or her that…?” even as he’s unable to help the almost wary strain to his voice, or heat already prickling his cheeks pink; it’s not as much as he’s scandalized as he is caught wholly off-guard.

See, he knows about this, this squirting thing. Being an omega, procuring a specific level of… wetness in any throes of arousal, he’s more than aware of its existence, its potential, although he’s personally never performed in such a way.

A decent orgasm beckoned by the hands, mouth, whatever of another person was already something he’d unfortunately found a bit more difficult to achieve in the past. And as good as he’s learned to make himself feel, he hasn’t reached the levels of supposed ecstasy that would elicit that caliber of reaction.

Honestly can’t imagine how intense the given pleasure must be to reach it. Or if that’s even a part of it. 

“Me,” Megumi answers primly. She stirs her straw around her glass slowly as if ruminating on the memory. Tilts her head slightly with a feline grin. “Then her.”

Char whistles low next to her. “Damn, both of youse? It takes me to the middle of m’heat to get to that point.” She sighs, swirling her pomegranate cider around with a minor scowl, head tilted up to the ceiling. “Doesn’t matter how good it is, if I’ve had anything to drink… it only happens during m’heats. Although,” she lowers her head as a grin pricks the corners of her mouth, “Georgie said I’ve got some mean distance—even got ‘im in the eye last time!” she cackles.

Megumi high-fives her and Rae once again shakes their head like a disappointed chaperone as they go in for another long sip of the ube daiquiri sweating on the tabletop in front of them.

(Harry doesn’t buy Rae’s exasperation, though. Not when he’s prone to the bombshells they’re keen to dropping. He shoots them an apprehensive sideways glance, but says nothing.)

“T’be fair, it doesn’t happen every time for me; it’s only if I get worked up enough, like, if there’s a good amount of foreplay, maybe some edging… something more for that extra push,” Megumi notes, so casually. “Soph’s a bit of a different story, like, she’ll murder me for saying this, but in her case,” and she peers around as if her girlfriend is here, rather than at the introductory bondage seminar she’s supposedly leading tonight, “there’s a reason we don’t even try to fool around in certain places. Or on certain pieces of furniture.”

Harry physically squirms in his chair. Ruining furniture?

“So the master’s become the student?” teases Rae, their tone keeping its near-deadpan moniker.

Megumi grins and throws up a cheeky peace sign. Harry looks longingly at the puddle of watery crimson sitting leftover in his glass and suddenly wishes he had ordered himself another drink the last time they stopped by the bar.

A little extra liquid might encourage him to ask, “Just how… bad does it get?” with a bit more dignity, instead of hunching over and barely lifting his eyes.

He’s trying to stay involved in the conversation regardless of his disconnect. Fears any prolonged silence on his end will lead to a playful interrogation he doesn’t have the strength to entertain.

“Bad enough that she had to borrow a mop at the club one time,” Char answers instead. Megumi makes a note of affirmation, as she’s working on her drink again. Char then adds, as if an afterthought, “Oh—and replace their old futon.”

Looking up from the remnants of his drink, Harry can only blink dumbly at her. “Replace?” he rasps.

Now that’s—that’s just ridiculous.

Megumi is quick to clarify, “To be fair, it was an old futon, and she was in heat that time; usually it’s not that intense,” as if not to toot her own horn, but, “though the club incident was bad enough some rags weren’t going to do the job. And I wasn’t about to let someone slip in that, let alone step in it.” She wrinkles her nose for good measure.

“Upstanding citizen, you—cleaning up your mess after having the audacity to fuck in a public place,” Rae snorts.

Megumi shrugs playfully, what can I say? and Harry crosses his legs, tight, under the table. His blouse, a sheer black number printed with equally sheer pink and red blossoms, unbuttoned to the top of the butterfly on his sternum, is starting to stick to his belly and lower back.

Char gestures forward with a flick of her chin, somewhere between him and Rae. As to be expected. Still, Harry mentally crosses his fingers it’s not him up on the chopping block next.

Thankfully, though: “What about you then, Rae? All you’ve been doing is snarking our sexual accomplishments. Time to confess your sins.”

Rae looks down at their hands—short indigo nails, witchy sigils in blown-out ink green running up each short finger—as if wholly uninterested. Above the conversation. Harry looks pointedly at them, too.

“I already told you: I am fully capable when the mood is right.” Rae pauses and looks up from their nails, expression bored. “That lad I brought home the other weekend, though,” and then they grin, wolflike and cunning, “it didn’t take much for him at all.”

This takes Harry by definite surprise, but notably not Megumi or Char. Char wolf-whistles with her brows raised and and Megumi nods, an small but admirable smile visible on her face, as she gives an appreciative and delicate clap.

Of course, as these talks often go between them, it’s only natural that Harry’s turn come next, but lacking the foresight to excuse himself to pick up a water from the bar or make the lame excuse to run outside to make a suddenly important call—his mum, maybe, just to ask about how the pub’s doing or to listen to her prattle on about what series her telly club is working through right now—three sets of eyes turn their attention towards him, and he’s promptly been cornered.

No way of escape, even with the booth opening to his right providing a perfect getaway start.

And again, he’s not a prude. He’s more than comfortable relaying his history, discussing sex and sexual health, about being in touch (ha) with one’s self and understanding the fine tunings of their body, which he, he definitely is in regards to himself, but—

again, he’s certainly never done that before. Honestly has never really considered trying it, or even just sat and thought about it beyond a vague concept. Skips the category when he's perusing for wank fodder.

Really, it was enough for him already to need to lay down a towel when he got to wanking. The thought of causing even more of a mess on purpose seemed a bit excessive. Needless, even.

And as far as he knew? Not everyone who could do that was even having the most earth-shattering, world-ruining orgasms every time; it sometimes just went hand-in-hand with coming. So—is he even really missing out on anything?

Harry sits up a bit straighter and his brows raise high on his forehead. He looks between his three friends nd their hungry, expectant gazes, to place a delicate finger at the center of his chest. Me? he indicates, praying for grace.

Unfortunately for him, though, Rae only gestures that he has the floor with a bow of their head and flourish of the hand, while Char tilts her head, batting her lashes, and Megumi brings both arms onto the table and laces her manicured fingers together, resting her chin atop them.

Goddammit.

“Oh, right.” He gives a tiny nod, drops his hand into his lap, kneads his lips together. “Uhm, well,” he peers down, at the hole in the left thigh of his black skinnies and the silver rings dressing his fingers, as if they can provide him some bullshit answer to keep his friends’ curiosities fed, get them to move on, but he’s always been a shit liar and he doesn’t want to feel like he has to lie to, like, fit in or whatever, not with people he considers his friends, so, “I… don’t think’ve managed to do that before, actually.”

He knows better than to expect jeers and mockery in response, but he still winces at their momentary silence. Dares not to meet their collective gaze, lest he actually find poorly-contained grins and the threat of laughter.

But, “Oh,” is all Char says, quick and even-pitched like a single tap of a piano key, “okay.”

Megumi gives a supportive nod, seemingly unsurprised, and Rae tips their head in plaintive consideration.

Skeptically, Harry asks, “Is that—that’s not bad, is it?”

To this inquiry, Megumi shoots him a little puppy pout and Rae reaches over and pats his hand, still hidden in his lap. Char’s brow furrows slightly and she shakes her head, the long, pink box braids she’s currently sporting flicking back and forth over her shoulders.

“‘Course it’s not bad, H,” somewhat defensively, “it’s just one of those things. Like, some people can do it, some people can’t, sometimes it just… happens. That’s all. Doesn’t mean you’re having bad sex or can’t get yourself off well enough.”

Megumi nods along encouragingly. “I could only make myself do it every now and then before I met Soph, and it’s not like it happened the second we started getting intimate, either. She told me she only found out how to make herself do it after a workshop, but she’d taken it a few times and thought for awhile she just couldn’t do it, which would’ve been, y’know,” she tips her head as if to fill in the blank, “fine with me.”

“And like I said before—with me, it only happens when the mood’s right,” Rae chuckles, confessing, “honestly, it really does just sort of… happen? I can’t find a pattern to it all, no matter how much I try,” and offers him a smile that makes their freckled cheeks dimple.

“Really, Harry,” Megumi leans over the table, nearly bumping into her glass and Rae’s, and pokes him playfully at the tip of her nose with one of her shortened nails, painted pale pistachio with a pink blush at the center, then sits back down. “We’re not taking the piss.”

They decide to move on from there, shifting to some juicy office gossip circulating around one of the twinky betas in marketing and how often a certain chart-topping alpha signed under one of their talent agents keeps stopping by for ‘afternoon meetings’ when most of that office faction is away on their lunch hour.

(“I don’t think Ethan’d look so out of sorts every time they have a ‘meeting’ if they were only discussing new promotion tactics… that’s the kind of wrecked you end up looking when you’ve just been bent over a desk and had the life railed out of you for fifteen minutes.”

“Hold on now—how do we know, if that’s even the case here, that Ethan’s the one being fucked? Honestly, Ravi looks no better afterwards.”

“H’s right; Ethan could easily be the top in this situation!”

“I’d bet on them being vers. Seen both of ‘em walk a bit funny afterwards—”)

Harry had originally taken the assurances in stride, easily able to move on with one last drink and Georgie texting Char that he’s stopping by the chippy before picking them all up—there’s just something about scarfing down hot, salted chips after a night out—but once in Georgie’s car, chips hot in his lap as he’s pressed against the left backseat window…

he feels as if he’s been pitied.

Were he a tiny bit more sober, maybe, he wouldn’t be feeling this way, but the vodka has knocked his inhibitions loose, allowing his thoughts to wander carelessly, untrackable, so he’s left dwelling. Aware that he’s out of the loop in a way, but now caring actively about it.

Wondering what exactly it is he’s missing out on, anyway.

Admittedly, yes, he could be having better sex in the past. His first time back at a house party in sixth form was pretty alright by the way first times go, but it wasn’t like sex had exponentially bettered when he got to university. The two boyfriends he’d had over his uni years were okay in bed, all things considered, but he’d definitely gotten off better on his own.

(Maybe 'okay' is doing them a service, too; he doesn't ruminate much on those experiences.)

There are absolutely more qualified fish in the sea that he’s likely to come upon as he continues to mature, and those individuals could very easily open up a whole new world for him by way of pleasure, but for now, he’s got himself and himself alone.

And while Harry can’t recall any orgasms of his own making being lacking—at least recently; he knows what makes him tick and how to fine tune his own pleasure—maybe, just maybe, he hasn’t reached his full potential yet.

Because he hasn’t done that. Let alone thought to try to.

But… there’s no harm in experimenting, right?

Bidding goodnights through cheek-pecks and twiddled fingers after Georgie pulls up outside of his building, Harry takes the lift up to the third floor a bit more wobbly than he’d like—more due to his feet aching than the fresh alcohol settled within him—but freshly determined.

Once inside his flat, he disarms the security system and sets his things down by the door—keys hanging up by the door, handbag and silken bomber jacket on the coat rack—before kicking off the sparkling pink ankle boots onto the floor runner—which he’ll likely trip on later, when he goes to check all the locks before bed—and flips on the dim standing lamp in the lounge.

The space isn’t all that big, just a single bed and bath with an open kitchen-lounge area and little balcony, but it's his. It smells clean and of his favorite citrus candles, is thoughtfully decorated and tidy, and despite his neighbors being visible just across the street, the small flat he’s chosen leaves him feeling protected without feeling compacted.

Leaving him to start undressing right in the middle of the lounge.

He undoes the last few unbuttons of his blouse as he goes to the kitchen, which had been left illuminated only by the hazy light over the stovetop. There, Harry pours himself a glass of water and goes to the cupboard, pours himself a small bowl of coconut-chia granola cereal, topped off with almond milk.

Munching as he goes, Harry traverses to the ensuite, which has a door that connects through his bedroom as well as through the hallway. His cup and cereal bowl rest on the tiled countertop as he shrugs off the blouse, undoes his belt, peels his skinnies off (with, admittedly, some minor difficulty), leaving him in his socks and underwear as he turns on the water and sets the temperature to just mildly scalding.

He quickly finishes the rest of his cereal, downs the sweetened milk, before shedding his socks and pants, a seamless rosy-nude thong that wouldn’t give him any panty lines in his skinnies. Finally steps under the hot spray with a sigh.

There’s thankfully not enough vodka in his system to leave him feeling heavy and dumb under the steamy spray, but he is tired enough that he still just sort of stands under water for a few minutes before deeming he needs to clean up, lest he accidentally fall asleep in here—which, admittedly, he has done before, on more than one occasion—and he’s got one more thing to do before floating off to slumberland.

After washing his face, shampooing and conditioning, giving himself a nice sudsy wash-up, he finishes with a luxurious sugar scrub his sister had bought him last Christmas that leaves his skin tingly and soft with peppermint and shea butter. He works it in circles from ankle to thigh, one leg to the next, then around his hips, bum, up his soft belly and chest to his armpits, down to his hands.

Once rinsed, he wraps his hair before patting his body dry, not even bothering to protect his modesty—from who, himself?—as he brushes his teeth, finishes his nighttime skincare through a hand-swiped window in the foggy mirror.

Harry then goes to grab his phone from his handbag, check the locks once more, close the blinds—he's come to learn that a few of his neighbors there across the way either don’t care, or don’t know they can be seen doing… whatever it is they’re doing in the nude, when they leave the lights on and curtains open at night—shut off any remaining lights, and put his cereal bowl in the dishwasher.

As he returns to the sanctity of his bedroom dressed only in his hair turban, he looks considerably at his bed, as well as the far corner of the room next to it.

While most buildings new and old include spacious closets as they’ve often been favored nesting spots, Harry feels safe enough in his wee flat to have his nest out in the open, set his up in the corner of his bedroom tucked between his bed and a cushioned bay window.

It’s currently made up of two big, plush, rounded cushions on the floor set with other pillows dressed in soft, pastel colored cases. A few of his favorite childhood stuffies line the side walls while his favorite blankets sit rolled up and stacked atop each other on the back wall, for added softness and extra comfort, should he need it. Over atop it is a large hanging canopy that can completely cover the nook, and a strip of golden fairy lights twined around the gauzy canopy fabric.

To some it might appear a glorified reading nook or a luxuriously overdressed dog bed, but to him, it’s perfect. Cozy and safe, perfectly plush, saturated with his favorite soft things and the gentle smells of home.

While he does spend most nights sleeping in his bed, needing the support for his back and space for flailing limbs, he always retires to his nest for heats. Often for a wank, too, as he doesn’t prefer to marinate in his own scent after a bath.

And because he has a plan: his nest is the prime choice for taking up such an experiment.

Rounding the bed, he gets down on his knees to crawl into his nest. The plug for the light goes into the nearby socket and the sweeping canopy above, tied back with a belt, is loosened, leaving him hidden away and bathed in a soft, warm light.

On his mobile, Harry opens up a private tab and goes to his favorite site. It’s the only illicit sort of subscription he has, but he likes how much variety there is available, and whether the scenes are ‘professional’ or posted by verified independent creators, there’s always a palpable chemistry between the people on screen.

Plus: no over-dramatized set-ups, no cheesy music, no cringey dialogue.

First, he gets himself comfy—half-lying down, half-sitting up, towel-turban keeping his wet hair from getting in his eyes—before starting off by rubbing over his chest and belly, his touches featherlight, absent-minded, as he opens the category page. Under his fingers, his skin is silky soft from the peppermint scrub, the fine hairs pinpricked from his touch spun gold under the yellowed light.

Anticipation is already fluttering in his chest, but he’s good. Doesn’t jump ahead. Keeps his touch limited to his chest, ribs, down to his navel, and back. He wants a thorough wank, one that will leave him boneless and sated, feeling that’s the best way to work himself up to the point of, well, actually releasing.

He’s about to tap on the ‘Romance’ category, deciding he’s feeling more in the mood for the tender foreplay and palpable build-up in these kinds of videos than the more aggressive, zero-to-one-hundred fucking often littered through some of the other tags he often peruses, but he pauses in favor of scrolling further down, curiosity beckoning him until—

Squirting.

Something swoops low in Harry’s belly as he stares at the link. He taps it without a second thought.

The default filter atop the page is always set to ‘most recent’, but Harry momentarily debates between ‘top rated’, ‘most relevant’ and ‘most viewed’, choosing to try ‘top rated’ first because, if he’s going to turn this masturbation session into joint research, he might as well seek out the most prime content.

Here, the first few featured videos are amateurly shot wanking scenes that aren’t very long, and their thumbnails advertise that the entirety of these videos are likely just honed in on the subject’s bits, which, admittedly, isn’t quite his thing. He prefers a bit more artistry and personality than that.

Most of the first few pages are more close-up masturbation videos interspersed with verified creators and pro studios posting their own compilations. As he clicks through some of the popular profiles, he also finds several of the top videos he’s seeing primarily feature beta women as well as high femme and female-identifying omegas, and there’s absolutely nothing wrong with that, but—

not quite his cup of tea, either.

Like—he’s still planning to get off, even if it doesn’t end here. As long as he’s wading through new waters, he might as well tickle his fancies.

So, Harry goes to the sidebar, switching the content filter from ‘all’ to ‘masc friendly’, which removes most of the videos he’d already scrolled past. Several of the pro-grade compilation videos remain—always good to see a partnered company entertaining inclusivity, at least—but then he realizes the change made.

His hand has since paused its teasing strokes over his torso, but as new videos begin appearing, more masc-passing and androgynous individuals, betas and omegas alike with plumbing closer to his own fill his mobile screen, and his fingers absentmindedly find his right nipple. Pinch, just to tease.

Harry draws his legs up slightly and parts them, but keeps pinching at himself with his thumb and forefinger. Drawing over the ruddy, silken flesh of his puffy areola to bud up his nipple. A zip of pleasure shoots down his spine and he squeezes his tit. Shudders slightly.

He drinks in the colorful thumbnails and titles set before him as if devouring a sultry visual novel rather than a premium adult video service—

‘Submissive alpha makes his omega squirt’ featuring a chubby, tanned omega with his hairy legs parted, his small cock half pushed into the mouth of a bearded alpha who’s got three thick fingers stuffed into the omega’s cunt.

‘Wife’s big knot makes me cum 🥰’ with a heavily pregnant individual laying arse up, cheek-down on a bed, their eyes rolled back half open and stubbled jaw slack as their proposed wife holds their round belly in her big hands whilst pounding into them from behind.

‘First time squirt ft. my beta and my alpha bfs!’ showing a cropped close-up of a long, pale torso with one tattooed hand gripping the torso’s hip from behind—likely one of the boyfriend’s who’s pushed into the omega’s bum—while the thin hand belonging to the other boyfriend—whose cock is visibly pushing into the omega’s bare pussy—thumbs over the omega’s swollen cocklet. The beta and alpha’s other hands can be seen pinned against the omega’s other hip, their thumbs interlocked.

(Good for them, Harry thinks.)

Harry’s since moved to his other nipple, has already worked it into a pebbled peak under his own attention. He shivers again despite the heady warmth already accumulating in his safe little nook.

The next video he sees, ‘Mated pair make each other squirt,’ features a thumbnail composed of high-quality overhead shot of two omegas kissing as they lay side-by-side on a bed, mating marks scarred and visible on their necks. Their legs are slightly entwined, but open enough still that Harry can see where they’re touching one another. One omega sports a surprisingly sizable cock partially peeking up between plush lips, while the other has a fat, puffy clit. Both sets of hands are occupied with cradling jaws and fisting cock, pinching cocklet between two fingers.

Harry tongue at his bottom lip. He taps on the title link as his wandering hand leaves his chest to slide down the faint center line of his abdominals. He sidesteps his groin, instead scratching over his laurels, down his inner thighs. Still teasing himself.

He’s getting wet already. If he were to move his phone away from his face, he’d also find his cock, barely as long the width of his hand when hard up, and just thick enough he can easily close his hand completely around it, interested and twitching against the crease of his drawn-up thigh.

The video loads quick given its length, but it starts slow as most other professionally-shot videos do. Players are introduced in a documetary style set up and share details on their relationship, shared kinks, before a soft fade leads to the beginnings of their intimacy. Wanting to get to the action, Harry skips through the couple’s brief introduction, and resumes playing once the set has changed.

Here, the two subjects on screen are fully clothed and sitting in front of each other on a large bed dressed with dark red sheets. Kissing between them starts promptly, but still, Harry bides his time. Pets his thighs.

It’s not until they’ve started stripping each other that he finally touches his cock, though he doesn’t fist himself, not right away.

No, he only rubs his index finger over the glossy tip. Taps into the slick bead there and catches it sticky on his fingertip. It’s enough to make his abdominal muscles tense, being ultra sensitive at the point of contact. He repeats the motion a few times, halting only to hold himself between his index finger and thumb as his middle and ring travel down, parting plush, silken lips to find where he’s pink and wet, tucked away tight.

His digits easily find the sensitive spot located directly under the base of his cock and press gently into the soft flesh, pushing down into it the tiniest bit. His whole body promptly locks up in pleasure, as if he's just flipped a switch.

Harry exhales shakily and repeats the motion so he’s making the tiniest strokes. The minute sensation quickly lights up his nerves, causing his cock to twitch and some deep, unreachable part of his lower belly to swell in interest, the beginnings of a whirlpool. He swallows thick in favor of releasing a gasp.

In the video, the couple’s breathing has started to quicken as kisses trail down long necks and thumbs brush nipples, hip bones. Harry watches raptly as the partner with the sizable cock goes easily pliant, clinging to his mate as the rippled scar on his neck is scraped over with sharp teeth. He moans softly as his ear is nipped, and his mate grins devilishly before nipping again, then abandoning his neck and ear in favor of working down his heavily inked torso.

Harry feels a trickle of slick slide out of him when the more domineering partner asks feel good? between sucks along the blooming lotus inked into their partner’s sternum, and said partner’s breathy yeah and more, please, that eggs them quickly further down. Harry’s belly swoops low when, out of nowhere, the domineering omega has shifted between their partner’s thighs and gets their mouth around the other’s cock, eliciting an unabashed moan.

And—he thinks he may already be wet enough to move forward.

Setting his phone down on some stacked pillows to his left and propping it against some lumps in the cushion, he’s able to free his left hand and take over fisting his cock, keeping it pinned up and out of the way for gentle squeezes. His right hand abandons the sensitive nook its been stroking to feel down over his hole, winking open and closed under his prodding fingers as slick dribbles slowly out, disappearing between his cheeks and into the covers beneath him. Aching for a little something more.

As much as he enjoys the sensation of being filled, Harry’s more partial to using toys than his fingers to achieve that. Sometimes will get concerned about his nails needing to be clipped first, or the lacquer chipping too much for him to consider risking it. Maybe he’s paranoid, but the fear of infection easily outweighs his desire to be more easily stretched open.

That, and, besides the point he has a treasure trove of toys to choose from, it seems he’s never able to as easily find his spot with his fingers. It’s a shame, given how dexterous and lithe his fingers are. He knows they’re long enough to find it, but whenever he feels for that delightful, spongy expanse that easily coaxes more slick and need from him, he can never actually feel it. Can’t even elicit the response that comes from stimulating it, whether he can actively feel it or not.

But he’s hopeful now, as he drags his middle and pointer fingers through the sticky spillage already available between his legs, and prods at his hole, dipping one fingertip in, then the other, until he’s able to coax both past the first knuckle, sinking into the hot, tight grip of his cunt.

His toes curl in the blankets as he slowly pushes in, rounding his fingers slightly in the process. He squeezes his cock at the same time, causing his abdominal muscles to tense. Harry’s head falls back, loosening his towel and spilling damp curls on the pillows, but he can’t bring himself to care. Not when he feels the warmth spreading across his skin, his muscles tightening; can hear the slip of his fingers working in as the video simultaneously announces gruff moans and whimpers.

His head lolls to the side for a better view of the video. Now, the blowjob has escalated to a joint fingering, shown by an artful shot that sweeps over the two on screen—trailing from the servicing omega’s open legs, over their back to their bobbing head, the muscles tensing in one arm as they crook a finger into their mate, and then their mate, who’s got his eyes pinched shut, lips parted, hands in the other’s hair, his body notably strung taut.

Fixating on the tempo of the lone finger inserted into the bottomed omega, Harry does his best to match it with his own. It appears to be a slow pet, perhaps even a stroke, not a jabbing or ramming straight into what he figures is the receiver’s spot. He’s sunk into the second knuckle now, and starts tap-tapping, pulling slightly away as he does so.

It feels—good, yes, but it’s not enough to tell him he’s gone and nailed the right spot yet. Feels a bit too much like he has to wee, which is not what he’s aiming for.

Harry closes his eyes. Splits his attention between the erotic soundtrack of the video close by, and the movement of his fingers pressed inside of him. He holds his cock steady at the base as his bottom fingers reach for that lovely place underneath it, trying to get as much stimulation as he can give himself.

He ends up slipping slightly further down the pillows behind him, and in the process, brings his legs up, bending them so his feet and calves are no longer touching the cushions underneath. Making himself somewhat small, balled up, trying to contain the pleasure.

In the process, he works his ring ringer in. Feels his muscles relax to easily allow it entrance beside his other two working fingers, pressing all three close together and almost shoving them all the way in. With all three digits angled slightly upwards, he bumps into—something. Icy-hot pleasure trills up his spine, swirls through his belly, a straight-shot arrow of buzzing sensation. A pathetic grunt escapes his parted lips.

Harry rubs his fingers as much as he can given the tightness of his body, nearly massaging into it the area. Finding it slightly firm under the initial plushness. Each targeted rub makes him clench up, squeeze down, and he tries to press his pelvis into it for more.

“Yes…” Now that’s more like it.

He stabilizes himself by unfolding his legs, only to rest his feet on the plush cushions below, giving him some grounding to actively rock against his working fingers. His other hand has ceased its movement, only holding him, too focused on the zips of pleasure ringing through his body from within to do more.

Already he can feel the tell-tale end building up steadily at the bottom of his spine, a tightness that creeps in from the outside like the ebb of the tide. Echoes of sensation that bounce around inside of his body with reverberations steadily growing closer together. It’s a slow build still, not quite within reach yet, but he knows the feeling well enough to recognize its impending approach.

Admittedly, Harry is hopeful. Each press of his fingers inwards has slick escaping from around them and his small cock is pulsing in his hand. Actively dew-dropping the trimmed hair above it with crystalline pearls. And he feels—good. Like a winding spring coiling tighter and tighter.

He wishes he could thrust his fingers faster, is the only thing. With how deeply they’re tucked away, he’s afraid pulling them out to properly fuck them inside, or ride down onto them, will cause him to lose his place—either in the steady incline towards his climax, the prime spot he’s located, or both. He’s not really in the mood for edging right now. Especially unintentionally.

He tries, though. A-plus effort. Tries moving his wrist just enough to offer some more punch as he leverages himself on his planted feet to rotate around his fingertips, even though he can’t really pull his wrist back too far, can’t fuck himself proper on his fingers like he wishes he were able.

The couple in his chosen video are growing louder, more desperate, right along with him. Somewhere along the way, his eyes had slipped closed, so he’s not even sure to what stage they’re at in their shared intimacy—but by the wet, worked-over sounds his ears pinprick to, he figures something substantial must be happening.

Still working his hips, tapping his fingers in a delightful way he knows will make his wrist sore, he peeps one eye open to take in the sight of the dominant omega hanging over their partner, now with three fingers crooked and fucking his plush, rosy cunt, the other hand pinning a strong thigh out of the way, while the receiver breathes heavy, red-faced, and pins his dripping cock against their hip for easier access.

A close-up shot shows the working hand is shining wet, and that slick has soaked the sheets now sticking to submissive omega’s cheeks, as well as matted the dark hair trailing from his pubic mound downwards.

An especially hard press of his middle finger upwards causes Harry to jolt, to whimper. His green eyes are half open, hooded heavy with pleasure, but ultimately fixated on the erotic picture playing out on his mobile screen, as he attempts to keep his hips undulating and bent hand in prime position.

He’s so wet, is the thing. Can feel it watery around his fingers, warm and damp under his bum when he touches back down. Would be a miracle, albeit a disappointment, if he didn’t gush over the blankets and pillows beneath him—though, if he does, at least he’s had the past foresight to keep waterproofed cases on all the cushions and padding in his nest.

“Oh-h, baby, m’gonna—”

“Yeah? Let’s see it, c’mon—“

Dirty talk is always a catalyst.

His insides swell, his muscles tensing from the bottom up. Threatening to spill right over. His movements are frenzied and hungry, desperate, and loud. Loud in his breaths and the smack of his hand against his soaking pussy. Matching the hard, slapping tempo playing tinny out of his phone speakers. He knows the tight coil in his gut is ready to spring loose at any second.

His wrist and fingers are cramping, but it's not a deterrent. The discomfort is easily dwarfed by the delicious tightness in his body spreading through the cords in his muscle, along his nerves, brittling his bones and locking his joints—a house stabilizing once more before it crumbles to the ground.

And he can feel it, that something, in the back of his throat, pressing down on his tongue. Harry pants and pants, bounces on his crooked hand. Eyes heavy and half open as they watch the omega shudder apart, spouting around his lover’s fingers, which are quickly pulled out in favor of another gush whooshing out between his shaking thighs.

Harry seizes, clamps down hard at the sight of it. Comes like that, with eyes pinching shut and teeth to his lip, vice around his own fingers. Through the muffling in his ears, he can make out that inevitable splashing, but he can’t tell if it’s from him or a second wind playing on his phone. Surely not him, because the wave is subsiding, the mess already left behind.

But his body settles slowly, a budded flower peeling apart to show its petals. He lays flat on his back, his neck still crooked to the side and fingers pressed deep. He’s locked up so tight around them, he’s not sure his body will easily let them go, but he wants to see. Wants to know if he’s done it.

Willing himself to further relax, he’s able to slip loose with a fresh flood, more slick pooling out of him, spider-silking to his hand. He feels a spark of hope at this, and feels over his inner thighs, which are definitely sticky and damp enough on their own. Finds his fingers are naturally tacky, pruned as he brings them to his lips to suck the heady tang from them. Wanting them clean for investigation.

But when he reaches back down between his legs at the blanketing beneath him, he can’t feel any excessive wetness.

Or at least—anything more than usual.

He sits up slightly to peer down and find that maybe, maybe, he proper shot off and his mess landed out of immediate reach, but he finds that that, too, is missing. All he can see is the sweat on his thighs, the slick shining up around his cock from where he’d smeared it, and a few drops of cum on his belly, watery and faintly milky in the dip of his navel.

“Dammit,” throwing himself back and frowning up at the gauzy canopy.

It’s definitely a bit frustrating, he has to admit. Never before had he been so sure of something like that happening to him, let alone actively tried to.

Perhaps he was right on the precipice and missed a bodily cue that would push him over the edge? Maybe he hadn’t had enough to drink beforehand? Needed to keep pumping his cock as his fingers fucked him from the inside? Either way, he was so sure it was going to happen and, despite how this orgasm has still left him boneless, breathless, he feels lacking, somehow.

Which is—truly unfair, given how hard he’s still breathing, the shuddery little aftershocks his body is giving as bursts of latent electricity fizzle out at his nerve endings, and how resolutely tired he feels, nestled amongst his soft things.

He’s not about to try again, though, too tired after a long night, long day, a long week; were he to pluck out a toy to give his fingers a rest, there’s still a dull discomfort radiating in his wrist from having it crooked at such a particular angle and prodding experimentally over his pussy, he’s unfortunately too worked out for more fondling.

Pressing underneath his softening cock only elicits over-sensitivity, and he retracts his hand with an irritated grunt. Outside of heat, he can typically go two rounds easy, pluck the orgasms out until he melts away, fully sated.

Although, all things considered—it was a nice enough wank on its own. Not overly involved with props and dressing, not lazy enough it dragged on and ended with boredom or a lowly orgasm that shuddered briefly through him like a cold wind.

But at the same time, it would have been nice if he’d achieved what he’d set out to. He hadn’t even picked up any hot tips from the video he’d selected other than the added confirmation that some kind of penetration was often involved in that sort of… thing.

Maybe there’s just some small factor he’s missing, then? Whatever that may be, though, he’ll have to find out later, because he’s not getting in his nice, clean bed covered in his own fluids; the covers in his nest can wait until morning to be washed.

He quickly tidies up in the washroom before returning to unplug his lights, plug in his phone, and snuggle down into bed. Here, he props the throw pillows behind him to act as a sort of barrier, something solid for him to be spooned by in the absence of a warm body, while a body pillow lays before him, something to snuggle against and throw a leg over, pinning it tight to him.

Despite his tiredness, the satiation sunk through to his marrow, Harry lays awake in the dark—considering. Plotting, perhaps. Because now, he kind of wants to see this thing through. Wants to prove to himself if the hype is worth it or not, instead of remaining out of loop with only the words of others to shape his own experience.

Silly as it may be, suddenly fixating on such a frivolous thing, a hit-or-miss aspect of bedroom behavior that may or may not even be worth it in the end, he can’t help but feel determined.

♡

The following weeks bring about a series of trials, all of which Harry, unfortunately, fails.

While he does feel as though he’s bettered his ‘self appreciation’ techniques, had quite a few successful orgasms that left him shaky and winded after, none of it is enough to fill this freshly dug well of curiosity inside of him. Each time he ultimately fails to perform, getting progressively wetter to the point he has to lay towels down underneath him before he begins each time—he’s not about to do laundry every bloody time he’s in the mood for a wank, okay—but never actually bursting at the seams.

He’s a leaky faucet, not a busted spout.

Initially he began doing some proper research by scanning through forums, articles, parsing video walkthroughs and tutorials, making mental notes as he went. Hell, one evening, he even listened to a two-part squirting special from a sexual wellness podcast he likes, while he was fixing teriyaki stirfry for dinner.

Then came the next phase, wherein he re-watched the bookmarked video tutorials as he got off, his laptop situated on a folding tray beside his nest as a guide. Strangely enough, he found the most of the thorough walkthroughs to feature stereotypically hyper-masc alphas and betas performing on petite omegas. These videos were even complete with diagrams and in-depth explanations on the How’s and Why’s before providing hands-on demos that always ended in the omega whimpering their way to climax, gushing on the instructor’s face or hand with such a force that their legs shook and chests heaved in an almost scary manner.

When he figured this format wasn’t working because he didn’t have another party involved, he switched to tutorials wherein the instructor was performing on themselves, but even then, nothing more was happening on his end.

Naturally, he figured: it was time to experimental.

First, he moved out of his nest, sampling new environments to see if that was the hot ticket, but—

casual wanks on the sofa only made him feel guilty for sweating on the cushions he had company lounge on. Situating on the floor hurt his back and knees and gave him an unfortunate rug burn on his bum. The shower was, actually, a welcome change with an adjustable showerhead to incorporate into things, but it took ages to get off like that, only to wield the same results, as he had to lay down on the tub floor to get the stream to hit the right spots and the temperature often waned before he was close enough to not care about getting cold.

Plus—there were only so many settings on the showerhead. And with water everywhere in the first place, he wasn’t even sure he’d be able to tell the difference between making himself squirt and the pulsing water running down his pussy.

(He thinks, so far, he’s not been successful anyway.)

Then, the next week, Harry gets the idea at work—of all places, and in the toilets, no less—that he’s simply not doing enough. If a spit-slicked palm and some curious fingers weren’t doing the trick, the involvement of some extra teasing or a toy would at least get him that much closer to achieving what he wants—right?

(It at least makes sense to him.)

From here, he begins by first shedding his plainer underpants for the few skimpy lace and chiffon pieces he has tucked away in his drawers. Delicate, hand-washable pairs embroidered with petite flowers and glitter stars or trimmed with ribbons, metal rings, intricate lacework. Always leaving his bum revealed or visible under the gauzy fabric.

Gets him feeling more sensual, like something to be cherished. More worthy of pleasuring, even.

Then, he’ll light some candles, turn down the lights, move to his nest or settle down in bed—all those extra pillows, hiding under the blankets, it gives a similar sense of security he hadn’t found before—always atop some emergency towels just in case, and gets to work.

He stretches out his foreplay, lets his imagination wander. Pictures himself in steamy scenarios he’s a bit too shy to openly pursue, like getting bent over and fucked in some club toilets, or fingered on a picnic blanket in the park on a summery afternoon.

And then, come in the toys.

Vibrators, dildos, knotting plugs… he’s got himself a nice collection and they all work him wonderfully. Surely, he figures, his fingers just don’t have the oomph he needs. Despite his romantic inclinations, loving a sleepy morning shag on his side where his neck can be kissed or some classically vanilla lovemaking in missionary, he knows he’s a kinky little minx, too.

He loves to be filled, stretched to his limit, pinned down and spanked, pinched, have fingers pressing down on his pulsepoint or yanking his hair or prying his mouth open to curl over his tongue and breach the back of his throat. Teeth daring to sink into the vulnerable stretch on his neck.

He can’t quite achieve the same thing on his own, but at least his toys are up to the task of splitting him open and pressing into all the vulnerable spots tucked away inside of him.

Some toys he simply presses inside and keeps stuck in place at the same time he teases his cock or rubs at the sensitized nook underneath it, while others he’ll get on his knees for and sink right down atop them, steadying himself on flat palms because the knot on the marbled lavender one is so fat it knocks the breath out of him once he’s finally got it inside.

A violent magenta dildo, realistically modeled after a lengthy, albeit averagely thick cock, he even suctions to the tiled wall in the bath and rides against it for so long he manages to make himself cum three times. Leaves his pussy pleasantly sore and his knees shaking as he clumsily clamors out of the bath.

Ultimately, though, he still finds himself incapable of squirting.

He just quickly finds he can’t force it, either.

Some late night frantic researching found him the knowledge that some people are able to egg it out if they’re careful, using the loo first and at exactly the right moment before they come, forcing their muscles to push against whatever it is filling them up—or nothing at all, for those who prefer external stimuli—and earning themselves at least a little something.

In this experiment, he’s in classic presenting pose with his arse high in the air and cheek smushed into the duvet, his feet hanging off the edge of the bed as he fucks himself on a soft strawberry milkshake dildo, alien in its tentacled shape but ribbed all over, the tiny nodules almost massaging as he works it and out of his dripping, open cunt.

When he’s close, his toes curled and mouth open around heavy breaths, he pushes down against the toy, hard, and—

is quite sure he accidentally forces something else out instead.

He knows it the instant it happens and is so mortified by the small stream that he hears hits the carpet and the relief that follows that he totally relinquishes his approaching orgasm, derailing it so completely that the toy simply slips out of him with a wet snick and falls from the edge of the mattress to the carpeted floor, abandoned in lieu of him cleaning up the mess he’s made and resolving with himself to never try that again.

By this point, nearly two weeks after his night out with his work friends, he feels desperate, and stupidly so.

Try as he might to be rational, to not hyperfixate on such a trivial thing, he still feels like a hormonal teenager who’s just gotten their hands on porn for the first time—he can’t seem to quit.

And it’s not like he can blame this on his heat, either. By this second week of his frenzy, he turns to his calendar hoping he’s only turned into a masturbation-hungry fiend because his heat is coming up, but surprisingly finds only disappointment and, honestly, a lot of shame, at the fact he has another month to go.

So—why?

It’s not even like he’s particularly attached to his heats; he’d just like a rational reason for the drive behind his recent behavior, and that’s the most rational reasoning he can think of. So—he’s not sure what exactly is wrong with him, and why he’s so magnetized to this thing, but there’s an itch under his skin he can’t scratch and he fears he won’t be able to balm it until he’s either, a. accomplished what he set out to do, or b., gotten hardcore evidence that this is just something he isn’t incapable of.

And Harry knows all this fixating is causing him to act differently.

He’s already put off lunch with his sister after not seeing her for weeks, he avoids getting pulled into plans with his coworkers and old uni friends, he’s late to call back his mum… it’s all very uncharacteristic of him.

And while they’re all quite understanding, not giving him much else than some wayward suspicion, asking if he’s alright, telling him to take care of himself, there is one person who isn’t taking too kindly to his absence—

and that’s his best mate, Louis.

The very same Louis who keeps sending him mardy texts calling him a prick and a knobhead for leaving him on read, threatening to give up his next appointment at the tattoo studio, but ultimately being concerned about why he’s only been receiving radio silence. Especially considering Harry hasn’t seen him in person for three weeks—just before that fateful night out that started this all.

Now, Harry’s making himself a breakfast omelet before work and trying very hard to ignore the pit of his stomach souring as he finally gathers up the courage to scroll through Louis’ accusatory texts. Makes him feel even guiltier, stupider, for what he’s been so preoccupied with.

Like, what kind of friend is he to blow off anyone, let alone his sister or his best mate in favor of feverishly wanking? Certainly not him, not before now.

He takes the pan off the heat lest his brekkie burn, and starts typing out a paragraph stringed together with pleading apologies. Throws himself under the bus for his behavior like he should, offering a hang-out date within the next week that he absolutely can’t move or try to skip out on. Promises to cover lunch or supper, obviously Louis’ choice, and whatever else that will, hopefully, get him forgiven.

It seems to work, thankfully enough—maybe all the pleading face and heart emojis and reiterations that Louis is his very best friend is what does it; or maybe just the promise that Louis will be getting a free meal due to Harry’s guilt—as Louis replies just a few minutes after Harry’s hit send.

Throw in a coffee as well and you’re forgiven x

Maybe you can buy me that coffee on Friday ? If you’ve got another half day ?

Thankfully? Harry does, and he confirms a lunch date for the two of them Friday around one in the afternoon.

Which means—

he has until then to either come up with a good enough web to spin that Louis will be hopefully placated with his lie, or, get over himself and tell Louis the honest truth. Both will put him in a bit of a predicament, but the latter will be easier to recover from because, at least, there’s no risk of feelings being hurt. He’ll risk the mortification, if only in the name of friendship.

Like, he’ll never live down his two weeks of being a wank-mad recluse, but maybe the embarrassment of admitting it will finally shake the shackles free and he’ll be placated with the likely truth that he simply can’t do the… thing, and can go back to being his normal, jovial, punctual self with a far more reasonably-balanced sex drive.

Leaning on the countertop, Harry prods at his veggie omelet and winds stringy cheese around his fork, erecting a slice of mushroom, some spinach in the process. Tries to resolve, whilst taking a steaming bite, that in just a few days time? He’ll be fine, his friendship will be fine, it’ll all be fine.

Whatever he ends up telling Louis and whatever teasing he may have to endure in the aftermath—knowing Louis, that prospect is always on the table, harmless as it may be—it’ll all be temporary. Realistically, it can’t be worse than the time he got too drunk on Tequila Sunrises during spring hols and fell asleep in Louis’ bed, then pissed the bed with Louis in it with him, or when he got hit with food poisoning while out with a hoard of friends and got sick on Louis’ trousers. While they were stuffed in the center of a club booth.

His ears burn scarlet with the vividness of the memories, amongst other past humiliations—such as falling down the main hall steps in front of the first lad he fancied in secondary, getting walked in on trying to fuck himself with a hairbrush by his sister when they were both still living at home—and suddenly the prospect of telling Louis the truth about why he’s been so absent lately doesn’t feel as daunting.

♡

“Alright then, out with it.”

Louis has literally just gotten his latte—one that Harry purchased for him, along with a chocolate muffin—from the bar and already, the interrogation begins.

Harry sips on his cappuccino, scowling over the large porcelain cup as he slurps up airy foam. He holds up one finger, would give me a moment?.

Louis sighs at him, needlessly exasperated. Flicks his fringe from his face and crosses his arms over his chest, legs spread wide in front of him, as his brow raises suspiciously.

Harry then places his mug atop the small, round wooden table shared between their armchairs primly, putting on a picture of innocence.

Asks, “Out with what?”with a light and airy cadence; as if he hasn’t a damn thought in his head.

Sometimes it’s just fun to annoy Louis.

“Don’t give me that, Harold,” Louis scoffs, “you know perfectly well what—up and abandoning me without a word otherwise.” He shakes his head, clicks his tongue. “Very uncharacteristic of you.”

Harry knows Louis’ turning on the dramatics a bit because that’s simply how he is, but he also knows Louis likely was concerned about him. They haven’t ever really gone for long stretches without at least checking in—even in the case where Harry was in total recluse mode studying for his bar exam and Louis was working twelve hour days on his tattooing apprenticeship.

So he straightens himself up, ready for whatever consequences come his way.

“M’sorry,” comes first, sheepish but earnest. He looks down into his lap and rubs his hands together, stroking the soft, worn cuffs of his jumper, a caramel-colored mohair blend. Comforting. “I really hadn’t meant to…”

Louis sighs long and Harry half-expects to peer up and catch him looking substantially unimpressed, but rather, Louis has softened considerably. In place of that judgmental cocked brow, he finds a sympathetic half-smile.

“Tell me what happened then,” he gestures to Harry as he leans forward to take his latte in hand, “y’can’t tell me you just forgot, or lost your phone for, like, two bloody weeks.”

Inevitable, this was. And Harry only has mild confidence that he’ll survive the embarrassment of his honesty—because now that he’s here and Louis is looking at him, there’s no way he’s getting out of this unscathed if he tries any flowery embellishment or white lies.

Sitting up straighter, he swallows hard. Louis’ brows raise with the force of his gulp.

“It’s kind of embarrassing,” he admits, hoping the forewarning will do anything to help him. He scratches the back of his neck, combing at the loose curls falling down his shoulders, nervous. “Maybe more than kind of, actually.”

Louis leans forward in his seat, bent over himself in an attempt to get closer. His eyes are already wide and his gaze flicks left, back towards the bustling bar and the baristas working behind it, then right, outside the large glass window showcasing the bustling street beside them.

Asks: “Did you put too much washing powder in the machine and flood your flat?”

Harry can’t actually tell if he’s being serious or not.

“No, because I know how to do my washing properly,” he answers anyway. Squints, unimpressed. Also, “Didn’t you do that your first year at uni?

Louis shrugs one shoulder—yes he did. Only it was the laundry room of his hall, not his room or an entire flat. Harry knows well enough that Louis’ mum still does his laundry when he goes home to visit her and his younger siblings.

“Whether it was me or not, not important,” Louis decides. He takes a long sip off of his latte—triple shot with whole milk, a half pump of toffee syrup—and hums a satisfied note. “Then, was it something else quite stupid, which is why you’re embarrassed about it? Or,” Louis takes another sip, sets his soup-bowl mug back down on the white saucer it came with with a satisfied ah, and looks Harry pointedly in the eye, “is it something personally embarrassing?”

He expects to be told what it is, then. Nosy bugger.

Honestly, “A bit of both, I guess.”

Harry reaches for the scone he ordered, cut down the center and nearly spilling over clotted cream and blueberry jam on the plate. He takes a bite, trying to buy himself some time figuring out just how specific he’s willing to get, getting crumbs on his fingers and chin in the meantime. Louis reaches across the table and thumbs the crumbles away without a word; second nature, eldest sibling. Harry can feel the light rasp of skin on his thumb, calloused from how he holds the tattooing machine, and tries not to shudder.

Truth is—

Louis is devastatingly handsome.

He’s got ocean eyes and soft, swooped hair with the sides and back nearly shaved down; golden skin decorated with tattoos and lithe muscles running up his back, down his arms and legs, from his years on the footie pitch. It’d be one thing to only be attractive, like, Harry could live with having a painfully attractive best mate, but Louis is also cunning and charming and has this infectious laughter that bubbles out of him and catches like a cold. He wears his heart on his sleeve and is not afraid to speak his mind and stand up for himself, for others, and he’s proud of it.

Plus, he smells like cinnamon sugar and smokey cardamom and brewing coffee; like a toasty room on a cold morning. Like a shared bed Harry wants to curl up into and hide under the blankets of.

So, when Louis retracts his hand and focuses on him inquisitively, genuinely intrigued, Harry’s heart skips a beat. Bounces around in his chest a bit.

How the hell is he supposed to tell Louis about what’s been happening and retain any semblance of his dignity? He hates that he still cares so much about what Louis will think of it, of him, always craving that attention and approval doled by Louis’ hands, but call him a liar if he ever said he didn’t.

Louis blinks at him and Harry realizes a beat late that they’ve just been staring at each other for a few solid seconds.

“So, are you going to tell me what it is, then?”

Harry squirms in his seat. “Do I have to?” with an edge of a whine.

What a stupid question. Louis doesn’t tell him so, but the unimpressed look on his face says it for him—absolutely.

“Think of it as… a condition of me forgiveness.”

Harry inadvertently gulps again and Louis grins, sharp and cunning, his pointed canines fully visible. That should make Harry nervous, not intrigued, but he can’t help it. Crosses his legs tightly and ignores the familiar swirl of interest spark up low in his belly, something he’s become accustomed to happening at least once in Louis’ presence over the years they’ve been friends.

Louis then changes position so he’s sitting on the edge of the worn leather seat cushion, legs slightly open and resting his elbows on his knees, hands folded between them. He cranes his neck forward slightly, his head tilted in interest. Brows raise and one hand gestures towards Harry.

Better to get it over with. Rip off the band-aid.

Bracing himself with a heavy, slightly shaky sigh, Harry tucks both hands into his sleeves and crosses his arms over his chest, partially tucking his covered hands into his armpits. Hopes he’s not giving it off citric, due to the embarrassment already pinking his cheeks and making his chest, belly, lower back feel sweat-damp. But—he mustn’t; Louis is still regarding him with keen interest, and if Harry was noticeably scenting the air with soured notes, the coy little smirk poking the right side of Louis’ mouth wouldn’t be there.

Louis may be a cheeky, mouthy little shit, never quick to bite his tongue, but his intentions are never ones of malice, and reminding himself of this helps Harry just the slightest bit. That if he were truly uncomfortable right now, Louis wouldn’t press or tease him.

But, because he’s still trying to save some face, instead of laying it bare, he instead asks: “Do you know what squirting is?”

He winces the instant it leaves his lips. Louis is a sexually-conscientious, decently experienced omega who proudly fancies other omegas—namely boys and the mascs, or masc-leaning variety, very much like Harry—and has been the one to teach Harry of some intimate particularities in the past; he has to know what it is.

And the way Louis merely blinks at him as if Harry hasn’t just said a damn word concludes that: obviously.

Harry digs his fingers into the slots between his ribs, turns his head slightly away.

“I—”

“Sorry,” Louis abruptly clears his throat, squeezes his eyes shut a moment. Harry can see his fingers flex and entwine in his lap. “Fuck, I just—I really did not expect you to say that.” He laughs a little, reiterating his surprise, and hurriedly reaches for his muffin, tearing off a chunk of the rich crumb. Chases it with a long sip of coffee, then clears his throat. “But, ehm, yeah’ve heard of it…” sounding slightly hoarse.

What else is there to say but, “Ohl,” and here it comes, the humiliation, seconds away from crushing him in a rockslide, he can see the incoming tumble; Harry’s eyes pinch shut as he braces for impact, confirming, “well, that’s what—I was trying to do.”

A magmatic wave of shame washes over him, head to toe—the delayed reaction of a cartoon character that’s just been tricked into swallowing down a hefty serving of hot peppers, or fallen into a bubbling cauldron of scalding water. Louis’ silence only drags it out, making him burn with it. He can feel the splotchy heat spreading across his face and down his neck his chest.

“You spent weeks trying to… find out what squirting is?”

Lemon on a paper cut; he shakes his head pitifully.

“Trying to do it.”

He rightfully expects more silence and palpable discomfort on Louis’ end. Expects one of them will make the excuse to leave and they’ll take ages to speak again, if ever, and Harry’s minor reputation as a walking meme will only grow.

Only—

“Huh,” a contemplative hum, some shuffling about, “well. How’d it go, then?”

Harry dares to open one eye and, much to his surprise, finds Louis looking at him without a ounce of malice. Not cringing, not baiting. He’s—waiting for an actual answer. Sitting partially sideways now, leaning more into the right side of his chair with one arm up on the rest while his fingers, inked with his lucky ‘28’ on one hand and a set of minute scribbles on the other, stay loosely laced together, legs still spread slightly.

Harry unfolds himself slightly, holding wary suspicion in his furrowed brow. “You really want to know?”

Louis shrugs one shoulder, tips his head like the thought is rolling around in his skull like a marble. “I mean,” pouting out his bottom lip, why not, “s’got to be a good story if I didn’t hear from you for that long because of it.”

He smiles reassuring and, if not for the small table between them, Harry knows Louis would reach out with one foot and press the side of his Vans to his boot. A comfort small that remains very much loud at the same time.

And so, relaxing his body and turning his attention fully back towards Louis, Harry actually tells him—about that fateful night out at the club, the stories shared between him and the others, and, with many, many details spared, the trails and tribulations of the past few weeks. He lets his exasperations flow freely, the gates opened, shame shed, and Louis listens to him eagerly and intently, nodding alone or humming in agreement, yeah yeah, but ultimately uncharacteristically quiet overall in lieu of Harry wringing out his troubles.

“... I know it’s fucking stupid to care so much about,” he gestures nonsensically, because he can’t help his frustration in spite of how inconsequential the source of it is, “but I just can’t help it. And I can’t help feeling m’doing something wrong, either, so I keep on trying. S’like I’m stuck in a bloody loop and I won’t be able to get out of it until I can actually do it, but,” he peers down at this hands, nails sunflower yellow and rings glistening; pics at a hangnail on the side of his thumb, “I don’t know if that’s possible for me. Or even worth it for me to keep trying.”

He looks to Louis with hopeful eyes; as if Louis holds all the answers for him as he sits listening earnestly with his eyes locked forward this whole time, working his muffin down to nothing between affirmative hums and nods of his head.

“You hyperfixate; we both do,” Louis decides. “Get an idea in our heads,” knocks on his temple, “and can’t shake it loose ‘til we’ve completely succeeded, or miserably failed.”

Harry can’t help but snort at the ridiculousness of the insinuation in spite of its truthfulness. “Does that mean I’m hyperfixated on wanking, then? Because I think I should speak with my therapist if that’s the case.”

Louis chuckles, shakes his head. “Y’probably should if that’s the case, but given everything you’ve told me, I don’t think it is. I mean…” scratches his stubbled chin, “you keep saying that you know it’s not a competition, and that whether you can or can’t do that, it’s not, like, proper indicative of how good you are in bed, or how good you can make yourself feel, but you’re still, well,” and he looks Harry up and down as if sizing him up; just in case, Harry sits up straighter, “violently wanking every day.”

He resents that. It’s not violent, it’s—fervent, impassioned. Motivated. ‘Violent’ makes him sound like a serial masturbator who peeps in public toilets and rubs off on department store mannequins in front of young mothers.

His displeasure must be evident, because Louis breaks into a grin and chuckles at him.

“Thanks, mate,” he says, flatly.

“You’re the one sacking off everyone to—” and Louis making an obscene hand gesture but stopping abruptly when two old nans in matching track suits walk past them on their way to the front counter, “not me. But seriously, H, for the record?” Louis looks pointedly at him, brows raised and clearwater gaze set, and Harry feels a bit like he’s about to be told off for being naughty. “Maybe you’re so stuck on this ‘cause you’re compensating for something else entirely.”

Harry’s brow narrows slightly. “Like what?”

He expects Louis to say something mystical and all knowing, as if he peered into his head himself and found the answers Harry himself could not find navigating in the depths of his own consciousness; instead, with a noncommittal shrug of his shoulder, Louis tells him: “That you need to railed.:

Thankfully Harry has nothing else to choke on but his spit, but he still does, wetly coughing into the inside of his sweater as Louis watches him just the same, wholly unphased, barely three feet away from him.

“I don’t really think this is all just because I need to have sex,” he rasps. The corner of Louis’ mouth quirks up like he wants to say that’s exactly what someone who hasn’t been fucked in awhile would say, but he watches his mouth, rubs his lips together instead, smartly. Harry still eyes him suspiciously, rightfully so, and concludes, without much thought, “But, alright, I’ll humor you; tracking that logic, then, maybe it’s something as simple as me needing a new hobby and the timing was just really poor.”

Louis—obviously disagrees with that. Twists his face up in disgust like the time they’d gone out for sushi with some friends and got goaded by Niall into eating a hefty scoop of salmon roe off of Harry’s plate.

(It’s like the popping bubble things, the fruit ones? We tried them at that fro-yo place in Picadilly?

I dunno, s’a hell of a lot more orange than those ones… aren’t these smaller as well?

They’re not strawberry is all; c’mon now, Tommo, be a lad and open up—)

“H, if that were the case, you’d’ve picked up knitting or baking your own bread or making hats for cats—not tugging your bits about as much as you could.”

“Hats for cats are already a thing,” because two can play that game, but, resolutely, tiredly, “I dunno, s’just… I don’t think it’s because I’m filling a void for sex. At least I’d hope not.”

Because he doesn’t think that’s the case, truthfully. Harry pinches the bridge of his nose. If he just wanted to pick up a new hobby, then he’d do that. Could easily get onto something like hand embroidering his jackets or collaging old notebooks or whatever other array of crafty activities are out there that he hasn’t yet touched.

And with those things? He’d be able to put them down, manage his life much the same. In his case, his recent proclivities have him wholly restructured.

He eats rather unhealthily in comparison to his typical diet—often picking up greasy takeaway on the way home, downing energy drinks because he’s so bloody tired—being tardy for work—because he’s been staying up much later than he normally would—leaving him grumpy and easily irritable—hence why he’s taken to blowing people off—and his flat is… definitely more unkempt than he’d usually allow.

It’s actually sort of been ruining his life, when he thinks about it. And after talking it all out, mulling it over, he’s starting to feel a little helpless.

Really, he’s about to admit this defeat, resolve that he’ll just have to find a way to make it work, he guesses, so dramatic of him—and over this of all things!—when Louis plucks him up from his spiral.

“You know… there is something we could try, if you’re up for it,” he muses, all coy, cat with the cream.

Obviously Harry can’t help himself perking up, rubbing the worn toes of his boots together as he eagerly leans forward in his seat. He might do just about anything at this point.

“What’s that?”

“Erm, well…”

He’s not looking directly at Harry for the first time since they met up an hour ago, now. Louis is far too good at making the person or people he’s speaking with feel like the complete center of attention, always careful in his body language and finetuning to match, or even rival, that of others.

Weird for him to get nervous now, isn’t it? The instant Harry is eager to hear his idea, he goes all bashful. A touch rosy at the apples of his cheeks as he ducks his head, kneads his lips together. It only serves to make Harry curious.

While his gaze remains ducked, Louis takes a preparatory breath, and: “I could help you out?”

This time Harry doesn’t choke on his spit, thank god, but he does nearly drop his cup when he goes to drink down the remaining dredges of soupy foam and cool espresso. Is caught so off-guard he doesn’t even have the instinct to shoot Louis a shocked look before he sets the cup back down, safe out of his hands.

“And how exactly would you do that?” he asks, his voice pitched slightly upwards.

Well, he can imagine what Louis means, but clarity would be very preferable right now.

Louis scratches the back of his neck and turns to look out the window, at the overcast sky and moving bodies, cars striping by in flashes of shimmering metal. “You know,” in lieu of properly answering, “I could, like, show you.” He scrapes his sharp top teeth over his bottom lip. “I mean, you have watched me before.”

To this, Harry’s body goes rigid. His toes curl hard in his shoes and he rubs over his knuckles in his lap.

“No, no I haven’t,” he swallows, thick, trying to push the memory away, out to sea, “not really…”

“Haz. We both know that’s not true.”

A new kind of heat finds Harry’s cheeks and ears, his belly. It swells inside of him, running along the right nerves trailing down between his legs and up between them. Shamefully aroused more than embarrassed at the reminder.

He thought Louis had forgotten, but apparently not.

It’s happened twice. The first time when Harry was still at uni.

See, after Louis had graduated, Harry still had one year left in the halls but ended up spending most of his time at this old, rundown boarding house Louis was renting with some mates. Compensated sleeping on the sofa or sharing Louis’ bed by helping do all the lads’ laundry; tidying the lounge of leftover beer bottles and pizza boxes; fixing them all something substantial to eat before and after his classes, the few days a week he worked closing shifts at this fancy juice bar close to the uni grounds.

Essentially: paid his way through his sort-of living there by mothering a rotating hoard of twenty-somethings—a decent mix of alphas, betas, and omegas—despite being the youngest one in the house.

One night, Harry had fallen asleep in this beat-up, oversized beanbag Louis had in his room while editing a mock case brief for one of his law courses. He’d only meant to shut his eyes for a bit, exhausted from all his studying and the influx of shifts he’d taken on, but ended up completely dropping off under the soft chenille blanket he’d curled up under. Awoke after dark to Louis’ bedroom door opening, and dim light from the hall spilling inside, following by some hushed giggling.

Louis had just started his tattoo apprenticeship at the time, but worked nights as a bartender at, ironically enough, Love Potion. Sometimes he’d go out clubbing with some coworkers after their shifts ended, and that’s exactly what had happened that night.

He’d come home tipsy with someone on his arm. Harry still doesn’t know who and he doesn’t really want to know.

Fuck, forgot Harry was here…

Oh, should I, uhm, should I go? Or do you want to, uhm, I’m not sure—

He sleeps like the dead, so maybe if we’re quiet…?

Too out of it to really connect the dots, Harry had originally pulled the blanket up over his head and gone back to sleep, only to be awoken again maybe ten, fifteen minutes later, to the unmistakable sound of moaning.

The thin curtains Louis had up over the windows were left open, allowing pale blue moonlight to trail into the room and illuminate the scene left before him: Louis shirtless on his back on the bed, his hand pressed to his mouth to poorly muffle his notes of pleasure while an unknown omega lay between his legs.

There wasn’t enough light to provide Harry any fine details, but the vision alone of Louis quivering in pleasure, both of his strong legs thrown over the other omega’s shoulders as they licked into him, complete with the soundtrack heavy breaths and pleasured purrs and slick smacks—it painted a clear enough picture.

And oh, it made him ache.

He’d watched over the edge of the blanket, tiredness forgotten and attention rapt, as Louis threw his head side to side, pawed at the omega’s head, struggled to keep his voice down.Harry couldn’t help but be transfixed by the sight. Aroused by it. Not when he’d been painfully aware of how unfairly fit Louis was since the first time they’d met. Without meaning it, his cock was filling out in Louis’ borrowed joggers, and he was smearing slick between his thighs as he rubbed them together, hoping to curb his arousal.

But then Louis had whimpered high in his throat, head tossed back, and the omega between his legs laughed quietly, quiet, you’ll wake ‘im, and Harry was reaching passed his waistband without a second thought.

He didn’t think Louis was lucid enough in his pleasure to notice his wakefulness. Didn’t think he was moving too much or making enough to sound to attract attention, only thumbing at the head of his cock and pressing his fingers against his cunt without pressing inside. Took him a minute to realize it, too focused on schooling his breath and keeping his arm movements minimal, but Louis was watching him. Had his head turned in his direction and was staring at him with eyes wide and pink mouth open around heavy breaths.

Neither of them said anything, but Harry did stop moving. He went frozen with fear, his body burning under the heat of the blanket and his sudden shame at being caught—as if Louis wasn’t also a guilty party in this, bringing someone home and actively shagging them with someone supposedly unaware in the room.

And then Louis had moaned a swear, unabashed and unstifled, still watching Harry, and Harry chose to read it as permission enough.

He still remembers how Louis had gone taut with orgasm not long after. His back arched beautifully and his head pressed back into the pillows, one hand fisted in the sheets and the other holding the omega close to him, keeping himself pleasured through the shocks of his climax. He’d grunted out a rough fuck—! before his body resettled and went lax.

Remembers, too, how it’d made his small cock drip in his hand and his pussy flutter, pitifully empty.

“Fuck… y-y’want me to eat you out or—?”

“No, just fuck me, please, m’so wet—”

Louis had gone for his bedside drawer, fishing around for something Harry couldn’t see in the shadow, but then the omega on the bed had slapped Louis’ arse to get his attention, to show him that they were already presenting with eager, wiggling hips. Louis had turned right around and covered their body with his own, kissed down the large tattoo stretching down the omega’s back—an intricately rendered dragon, Harry had learned not long after—before sitting up on his knees behind them and bringing his hand to waist level, no preamble before fucking it forward.

All the while: keeping his head turned and his eyes focused on Harry and his movements only slightly hidden under the blanket.

His expression had been—unreadable, honestly. Harry could only describe it something akin to wonder, curiosity, but at the same time, not exactly so. The only indicator that Louis was even actually looking at him as opposed to passed or off into space whilst trying to focus the wet twist of his fingers inside the other omega, was when he’d asked the omega if they were close, told them admirably how wet they were, and coaxed them into letting go, s’alright, darling, I got you, y’can do it…, it felt like it was directed at Harry.

And when Harry came seconds later, shaking like a leaf as his pleasure flooded through him, Louis was still watching him, a look of unmistakable pride on his face.

The next morning, Louis had apologized to him for bringing someone over, while fixing them both egg and cheese bunties for breakfast, and when Harry had stammered his way through a shitty cover up, what d’you mean, I didn’t even hear you sneak in last night?, Louis had grinned at him and bumped his hip. Told him it was alright—I saw you quite enjoyed the show.

That was about as much as they’d ever talked about it then, and hadn’t mentioned it at all to each other since. Well—since now, Harry figures.

The initial incident Harry has, admittedly, committed to memory. Sometimes revisited on lonely nights when the made-up figures in his imagination, the ones he pictured between his legs cramming inside of him, weren’t doing enough to get him off.

The second time was more so a fluke. Not nearly as interesting a tale—just the two of them getting off in the same room one night Lous had crashed at Harry’s dorm, thinking the other had been asleep. Maybe Harry had let a little moan slip when he’d realized what the shuffling on Louis’ side of the room was, and maybe Louis had looked over at him and grunted out a swear.

And maybe Harry also thinks of that night and the minute sounds Louis purposefully or accidentally released—either way, he leans towards accidental, because he doesn’t think he could take it if it were all on purpose; if this were some kind of game Louis liked playing with him or if it meant something else entirely—and since committed to memory, but just like the first time, they haven’t spoken about it.

Louis is looking at him now, staring right through him, but Harry shrugs, makes an exasperated sound, not knowing what to say. Can’t fight him on this, say it didn’t happen; not when he thinks about it so much.

“Okayyyy,” said slowly, unsurely, but it’s the best he’s got. “And if I said yes to you helping me, what exactly would that entail?”

“Ehm… I dunno, really,” making an impressed face; clearly hadn’t thought this through.

“Well, why offer to help, then?”

Harry doesn’t mean to make it sound so snappy and condescending, but his nerves are a little frayed. If he agrees, they could do anything from simply watching porn together to actively fucking each other, and recovering from the latter afterwards as if nothing had happened is absolutely out of the question.

Louis doesn’t seem to take it personally, though. He scoffs a little at Harry’s tone, yes, but he doesn’t meet his energy the same way.

“Because you’re my best mate,” he explains, softly and simply, no duh, “and I don’t like that you’re stuck in this rut, even if I don’t really understand why you are. Something’s wrong and it’s bothering you and I just,” he smiles small, bashful again, gives his head a little shake, “I want to help you.”

It’s very sweet, honestly, but it’s also not like they’re speaking about moving house or painting the lounge or building a coffee table together. This is a situation far removed from typical friends-only activities. There will be a newfound intimacy to it, whatever may happen, and given that Harry has purposefully chosen not to actively pursue things in that direction with Louis out of fear of mucking things up between them before they may even start, and given that he doubts Louis is wholly aware of just how deep the ocean of his feelings falls—

is the risk even worth it, if it fixes just this one thing? This stupidly nonsensical corner he’s back himself into?

But then again, Harry is only a human. He’s got selfish proclivities. This could be the one chance he has to see what it’d be like with Louis, and—

he doesn’t think he can turn that chance down.

He’s quiet mulling it over, looking over the scuffs on his rings and the speckled rug under their feet, the worn-in knicks in the wooden tabletop. He can feel Louis’ eyes on him but can’t meet them, not yet. Not until he decides that—

“Okay,” only then meeting Louis’ eyes again. Shocked to find them so hopeful, so big and clear. To see the thin, pink line of Louis’ bottom lip held nervously captive under his teeth again. Harry’s belly flips over and he nods quick, reiterates, “Yeah, I’m—yeah, if you really think you’ll be able to help me, then I trust you.”

Louis instantly brightens. His shoulders, a tense line, immediately relax.

“Alright, good,” he breathes in and sits up straighter. “Yeah, let’s do it then!” Claps his hands together, minorly startling Harry, who hadn’t expected Louis to be—excited? “Next weekend then?”

“I guess… better sooner than later,” agrees Harry, somewhat awkwardly.

“Good, it’s settled then. Saturday afternoon, you order lunch in, and then I’ll come to yours to get to work.”

“I still owe you a meal?” Harry snorts at him, not at all surprised, even with this turn of events. “Was me bearing my soul and all my embarrassing woes to you not enough compensation?”

Louis considers this a moment, as he does, only to conclude that, “Well, we’ll need our energy, won’t we?”

Harry gulps and weakly nods his head and forces himself to consider, if only for a moment: if his impending doom is all going to be worth it in the end.

God, he hopes so.

♡

Given his so-called problem the preceding weeks, Harry cuts himself off cold turkey in the days following up to his ‘problem-solving’ night with Louis, just in case he actually has to perform.

He feels more normal than he has in awhile, back to his healthy meal-prepping and getting to work early, starting his days off with yoga and actually interacting with the people around him. Chalks his recent behavior up to family stresses to his coworkers and work stresses to his family, friends otherwise trussing it up to a normal adulting stress patch, but only Louis knows the embarrassing truth of it all. And he plans to keep it that way.

That incessant thrum of need is still itching under his skin all the while, but the promise of a solution helps and keeping himself busy seems to help curb it. It’s only really in the instances where he doesn’t have anything at all to do, all the cleaning finished and leftovers put away, too late for a jog or to get deeply involved in any particular activity, that he notices its lasting presence.

But—he says strong. Keeps his hands above the waist, even just to fall asleep. Probably for the best, too, because all that lonely, constant wanking has also caused his pussy to grow sore and his cock too tender for much fondling.

He and Louis are texting, too, but surprisingly, not much about their upcoming plans. As embarrassing as it may be to directly discuss the fine details of his proclivities in person, Harry thinks going back through past messages to see easily mistakable dirty talk might be even more embarrassing. Doesn’t need a paper trail to prove what a pervert he feels.

But before long, the fateful day is upon them. They decide to meet at Harry’s flat on Saturday afternoon, and Louis brings with him some light fare takeaway Harry had ordered for them to pick up.

He also arrives with a duffel thrown over his shoulder, and dressed in a fitted graphic tee that stretches tight over his chest and some fitted joggers. Leaves him looking both put together and cozy. He smells freshly showered as they go in for a welcoming hug in the doorway, though Louis’ natural scent is thankfully unfettered by a light wash of soap as Harry tucks his face into his shoulder.

“What’ve you got in there?” Harry asks, curious and perhaps fearful enough that he goes to unzip the bag where Louis has dropped it on the rug in the lounge, but Louis snips at him to leave it alone, Harold, from the kitchen, as fetches them utensils.

He can’t help his curiosity though, side-eyeing it from his perch on the bent end of the sectional sofa, located closest to the kitchen, even as Louis comes up behind him and presents him with the sweet miso salmon bowl he ordered, as well as a fork and a tall glass of water. When Louis settles into his usual spot atop the middle cushion on the longer stretch of sofa, he moves the duffel with his foot behind the coffee table.

“Good things to those who wait,” he muses, before digging into his katsudon.

Lunch passes by quiet but quick. Harry watches Louis carefully as he works through his salmon, trying to size up what exactly the day is going to entail while Louis scrolls through his phone and munches away on his pork cutlet, uncharacteristically quiet. Rather than asking, though, Harry stays pondering and is quietly thankful that he already had the foresight to take a thorough, pampering bath that morning and prepare the bedroom ahead of time.

(If things go according to what he assumes to be the plan, there will be plenty of laundry for him to do tomorrow.)

Louis is the one who volunteers to tidy up, reminding Harry to finish his water and use the loo before he’s ready to get things started; Harry briefly remembers his little accident a few weeks past and races off to use the toilet before Louis’ even done reminding him.

When he returns, Louis is back relaxing into the cushions, stretching his arms out in front of him before resting them on his belly, sighing content as he rests his feet up on the bottom shelf inside the glass top coffee table Harry’s decorated with petite ceramic rabbits and an old danish ware vase filled with sunset tulips from the market down the road. Right at home.

Harry hesitates in the entry between the lounge and hallway. Louis turns to look at him, brows raised.

“Alright, then?”

Harry fidgets in place, his socked feet pigeon-toed and hands clenched into the soft inside of the oversized crewneck he’s wearing—comfy in his own right with scrunched socks and fitted leggings under his loose jumper, his hair pulled up away from his face in a loose bun.

“What exactly are we going to do?” he asks. His voice definitely gives away how nervous he’s feeling, tiptoeing ever closer to the inevitable. “I mean, I’m fine with pretty much anything within reason, but we’ve not really spoken about the details at all and I’d,” he swallows, focuses on the feel of soft fabric rubbing between his thumb and the side of his index finger, “like to know what the plan is, before we start.”

Louis looks at him almost apologetically and pats the cushion to his right on the sofa. Harry has to step around the duffle bag and coffee table to get there, but he does, and sits up with his legs folded beneath him, and his hands in his lap. All that’s left between is a cream throw pillow decorated with an embroidered stick of lavender at the center.

“It’s really all up to you, H,” Louis explains, once Harry settles. He turns slightly so they’re better facing one another and offers a small, comforting smile. “Is there anything specific you want to do?

What a dangerous question that is. If he were to be wholly honest, he thinks he’d scare Louis away. Knows he would. He can’t admit he wants to settle down in Louis’ lap and lick into his mouth, bury into his neck and stay there, breathing. Can’t say he wants Louis’ clever fingers catching on his nipples, gripping his hips, pushing his legs apart and pressing into the sensitive spaces between them.

He wants too much, and too much of that he shouldn’t even be invited to ask for.

“I’m not really sure,” he says instead, decent middle ground. He looks down into his lap, picking at a loose string on his leggings. Admits, “M’a bit nervous about, uhm, being able to, well, perform, if m’honest.”

Because it is still a possibility, that the goal they’re here to attain doesn’t even occur in the end. If anything, Harry guesses he’ll at least be able to walk away from this having cemented the fact that it’s just something he cannot do, but he’s not sure that’ll be a satisfying outcome enough for him.

Louis laughs and it sounds like wind chimes on a breezy afternoon. It’s not to tease him, though Harry at first suspects it. Rather, Louis seems endeared by his honesty. Delighted by it. Harry can’t help but laugh along with him.

Somehow, it helps to soothe his nerves a bit. Seeing the fondness in Louis’ smile that follows only helps, and it hits Harry, then, how much he’s actually been missing him, because of all this. Only a few weeks of not seeing each other can do that to him, still. He didn’t get to revel in the missed warmth of Louis’ person last week at the café and he hadn’t realized how much he’s craved it until now, close and alone together in his flat, because he was too stupidly distracted and drawn into his own bullshit.

It makes him scoot that closer to Louis, magnetized to him like he is in every room they’re together in. Pushing into the small pillow separating their legs from touching.

“Well, s’not like you’re the only who needs to ‘perform’,” Louis notes, his tone light.

Harry gives a fond nose scrunch in turn, agreeing, but he’s quick to almost draw away when Louis reaches out—and brushes a stray curl off of his forehead. It’ll fall back into his eyes in a moment, having somehow slipped out of the elastic holding up the loose topknot containing the rest of his hair, but he thinks if that means Louis will correct it again, he will gladly let it be.

Shy now, Harry ducks his head. Sees Louis’ hand rested on the pillow between them, the hieroglyphic symbols dark on his knuckles. If he reached out just a bit more, he’d brush Harry’s arm, covered with baby blue cotton, with his pinky. Harry bravely scoots that much closer anyway, forcing Louis to touch him again, if only by a pinpoint of contact. Still, it’s grounding.

He bites back a smile, chin tucked still, when Louis presses his whole hand up against the side of his forearm.

“I’m fine with anything, really,” he reiterates, his voice low and maybe a bit shy, looking up under his lashes.

Something has shifted in the air between them so abruptly; his initial worry over things being awkward, something not working, the surprise at Louis’ confirmation that this is something he can do and the minute blip of arousal that followed, has all melted away into a profound sense of what Harry can only describe as—

wanting.

He’s not sure what’s done it exactly, but maybe it’s the way Louis’ looking at him, so close and touching him so casually. Being able to laugh together in spite of the nervous tension Harry started with. It feels like that telltale moment in all those silly rom-coms he loves so much, where the air between the two love interests visibly shifts and oh, there you are.

Of course, Harry’s perhaps felt that since the day he mistook Louis for his roommate at a bar, and came up behind him for a hug, only to realize his roommate wasn’t wearing a denim jacket when they left the halls and his roommate definitely didn’t smell like a toasty room on a wintery English morning.

Perhaps this was what he was missing all along; that this was the kind of nonsensical situation that was bound to push them together, instead of a leap of faith or a drunken confession or the unwanted intervention of friends who were getting both sides of the story and tired of waiting for the page to turn.

Christ, they’ve not even kissed before. Sat with his legs folded under him, all Harry would have to do is lean forward. Louis would only have to tilt his head up slightly.

“You’re scenting the air,” Louis notes, a crinkle at the corner of his blue blue eyes.

Harry’s note scrunches; all he can smell is Louis—spicy-sweet sugared cinnamon and dark cardamom, coffee brewed hot and black.

“No m’not.”

Louis chuckles, brushes that stray hair way again. “You are,” he insists, and his nose twitches for effect.

Harry’s socked feet shift under his bum, discreet. He doesn’t feel at all wet, and his cock is laying soft, tucked away in his underwear. So—

“You are in my flat,” he reasons, only, “s’funny, then, ‘cause I only smell you.”

Not that he expects to actively be able to pick up his own scent at all hours, and figures it’s the case for most anyone else, but this is—it’s almost like he needs to take shallower breaths because Louis’ scent is coming off so strongly, now.

Louis re-situates so he’s balanced more on his side, facing Harry all the way. “And what do I smell like, hm?”

He seem almost… pleased.

Should he be honest? Harry kneads into his bottom lip, pinching it between his thumb and forefinger, nails a a delicate rose gold shades lighter than his pink mouth. Louis’ thumb presses into his own and draws his hand away. A fresh wave of spicy smoke hits him and simmers warmth low in his belly.

Again, “What do I smell like, H?”

“Like,” Harry swallows, thick, and squeezes onto Louis’ hand, which is pressing his own to his chest, “sweet spice, n’smoke. Like that cinnamon gum you used to take off Zayn and those Christmas candles your mum bought you when you moved into your place and those fancy coffee beans you like but can only find at Waitrose.”

He’s thought about it since that first night, trying to place the exactness of it. Louis’ warm hand on his pressing against his sternum, just above the butterfly inked into skin, pushes it out of him.

Louis’ eyes are dark, his summertime blue being swallowed up by inky black. “Is that good, then?” his words are breathy, almost pleading, like he needs Harry to tell him he likes it.

Of course he does. Nods fervently. Holds Louis’ hand close to him and squeezes around his thumb.

“Always has been,” Harry croaks.

Louis is so close to him now, he wants to hold his breath. Wants to pinch his eyes shut, bite down hard on his tongue until the copper salt of blood fills his mouth and he can know for sure this isn’t a dream. Doesn’t know how they got here; something must be missing from the picture. Louis’ never looked at him with such a profound hunger before—has he?

Harry was always so sure it was always him, hopeful, catching his own wanting gaze in a reflective surface and schooling it before Louis could notice. But now, now he’s not sure.

It feels like, now, this is the only way Louis has ever looked at him.

“D’you know what you smell like?” Louis breathes, and his breath is warm as it ghosts over Harry’s neck. Shivering, Harry shakes his head. So Louis tells him: “You smell like those big bushes your mum grows on the side of her house… those spices you put in mulled wine… the white flowers on orange trees before they turn into fruit,” he’s so close, his nose brushes the hook of Harry’s jaw, “makes me feel crazy.”

Harry doesn’t mean to whimper, but he does. Slips right out. His insides have all melted to warm honey.

“I meant it when I said I was fine with anything—”

Cheekily, Louis adds, “Within reason.”

Harry’s answering laugh is airy and rough, slips right out of him. “Yeah, within reason,” nods his head, “so, like, no chaining me up and eating pasta off of me, and no pissing on my face, either.” Louis puts on a face of offense and Harry’s nose bunny-scrunches again. “Hey, we need some ground rules.”

“I understand,” Louis sighs, all playful, still not moving his hand away, but leaning slightly back from Harry’s neck now. Looks him directly in the eyes to say, “You won’t get cross with me then, if I get you messy otherwise?”

It doesn't carry the right cadence for dirty talk, nor for teasing; rather, it comes off an earnest question, and given what they’re trying to achieve on Harry’s end, naturally there will be some mess had. Harry isn’t quite sure what he means by asking this now, though.

Harry cocks his head in question. “What d’you mean?”

Louis blinks at him in confusion. “Harry,” he starts, somewhat awkwardly, as if that says enough on its own. When Harry can only squint at him in his own confusion, Louis’ cheeks bloom with color and purses his lips together. “I mean I can do that.” Another beat of befuddled quiet. “Jesus, I can—I can squirt, Harry,” and his grasp on Harry’s hand tightens slightly, as the blush finds the tips of his ears.

To this, Harry can only feel heat flash sharp in his chest. Says, “Oh,” staring dumbly at Louis’ flustered face. Well, this certainly makes more sense, now—alongside his general good-naturedness, why Louis likely volunteered in the first place. His experience. “You didn’t… mention that before,” he adds, somewhat strained.

He’s not sure if this newfound information makes things better or worse. Somehow, though, he wants to kiss Louis even more than he did just a minute past.

“S’not about me right now, that’s why,” Louis replies. “M’only bringing it up in case, ehm, y’know…”

His gaze flicks downwards and he spreads his fingers over the hand he still holds captive to Harry’s chest, feeling over the soft cotton, the cream teddy bear printed across the front. Lets the silence speak for him. The rosy flush on his cheeks darkens the freckles there and trailing over the flatter bridge of his nose. Not at all often he gets to see Louis genuinely flustered; that’s usually reserved in Harry’s stead.

It plants an idea, seed to the soil.

“Hey,” Harry dips in dangerously and nudges Louis’ chin with the pointed tip of his nose, just brushing it over the sandpaper on his jaw, more freshly shaved than the last time they’d seen each other. Waits until Louis raises his eyes slightly to murmur, “That’s within reason,” and reiterating, when Louis scowls lightly, “anything within reason, right?”

Clarity reaches Louis’ eyes bright and he lifts his head all the way. So much closer now, by Harry’s doing. He gives an affirmative hum that Harry swears he feels at the few points of contact they share—the hand on his arm and to his chest—and his eyes flit over Harry’s face, careful, as if looking for a sign to give him space, when that’s the very last thing Harry could want right now.

“Then, within reason,” Harry can’t stop himself from tracing the outline of Louis’ mouth with his eyes; Louis wets his lips with a poke of his tongue and Harry’s voice trembles slightly, requesting shyly, “I’d like you to kiss me.”

With the force he feels Louis straighten, he half-expects him to crash their mouths together. Hungry, feral, all spit and teeth. Instead, he’s surprised at the delicacy had when Louis cups the back of his neck, baby curls flattened under his palm, like cradling porcelain. He brings their faces that much closer, causing their noses to brush.

Louis’ voice is breathy and small, “Anything you want,” and he smooths his lips together once more before leaning in.

The press of their mouths is so soft, Harry might think it a dream. A butterfly kiss. Louis’ sandpaper stubble, evidence of a recent shave, tickles his jaw, his cheek, but his lips are silk. It’s so startlingly gentle that Harry takes a moment before he’s cradling Louis’ face in his free hand, tilting his head just so.

A few moments pass and Harry pulls back a second, breathless. Trying to calibrate himself with all the electricity coursing through his body from Louis’; the rush of blood in his ears and Louis’ heartbeat pressed to his, both erratic and pounding through their chests. Trying to tell if this is real.

His eyes flutter open, not even realizing they’d fallen closed, and Louis is looking at him questioningly, searching, a fold at his brow and his lips parted as if to ask what he’s done wrong, and Harry—

he can only grin and nuzzle their noses together. Feel the tension in Louis’ jaw immediately melt away before he causes their lips to meet once more. He’s never felt anything more real in his life.

They overlay kisses soft and safe, leaning into each other while supported against the back cushions of Harry’s mossy-green sofa. It’s Louis that seats himself first, Harry following his mouth as he settles out of his twisted slouch. His hand slips from over Harry’s only to guide him by the hip into his lap. Harry barely has the foresight to avoid sitting down completely, lest he get carried away too fast and start to leak through his leggings at a touch of friction.

Whatever happens now, this isn’t something he wants to rush.

Louis’ body is so warm and solid under his. His fingernails are dull scraping gently through Harry’s hair and Harry is very nearly purring already, feeling safe, held. Nevermind the anchor on his wrist—Louis is the one grounding him. Of course, he has to hold Louis’ face in his hands like something precious, hoping to convey to him through touch and scent and the slick smack of their lips that this is exactly what he’s wanted, and how grateful he is for it.

Can’t remember feeling this contented by a kiss. Never felt more at home with another body.

It doesn’t take long for hunger to grow between them, though. Louis nibbles along his bottom lip and Harry is helpless to let him in, eager to let himself to be tasted. Drops his weight fully into Louis’ lap, too, fully melting into him.

Louis goes to gripping onto his hips with both hands so he’s holding him down and close. Almost like he’s afraid Harry will slip away if he lets go. Harry understands the possessiveness, the possible fear; he’s slightly worried of what will happen once the kisses cease, given how much courage it’s taken him to climb to this point.

But when Louis’ tongue slips into his mouth, careful enough it must be experimental, a pleasured shiver wracks through his body, getting his insides all twisted, and Louis holds onto him even tighter. Harry nips him back, causing a pleased rumble to vibrate through Louis’ chest. Harry’s toes curl in his striped socks along the outsides of Louis’ thighs, so pleased.

All he can smell and taste and feel is LouisLouisLouis and it’s making him hungry for more. Only a tease of tongue and teeth and heat curls sweet in his belly, pushing blood to all the right places. Naturally he grinds down, forward, rubbing experimentally against Louis’ lap and lower stomach, both trying to get some pressure on his bits and signal how good he’s feeling already.

Louis pulls away from his mouth for breath looking pleasantly flush and dizzy, but eyes dark and lips kiss-red. Harry chases him with a weak whimper, swiftly uncaring of his own sudden desperation, and Louis chuckles, tips their foreheads together.

“Anything else you’re comfortable with?” he teases, and fuck, his voice is crushed velvet, gone all rough with arousal.

Harry rubs the tip of his nose into Louis’ then to one side of it. Peppers his pinked cheek with kisses that trail over the bridge of his nose to the other cheek, where he then nuzzles in against Louis’ temple.

“Harry…” Louis singsongs, giggling, rubbing over his hips.

Harry mumbles, “Lots of things,” and kisses the crinkles next to Louis’ eye. “Mm. Y’smell good.”

“So d’you,” which earns him a kiss to the cut of his cheekbone, the mole next his mouth. “But as nice as this is, and trust me,” he feels up under the hem of Harry’s crewneck, lifting it to tease the top hem of his leggings, “it’s very nice, big fan—I don’t think we’re going to much else done if we stay here like this.”

Harry turns to face him again and pouts. Pets at the shaved hair at Louis’ nape. Louis’ right, naturally, but he’s so comfortable, and Louis kisses so nicely, not too wet or too toothy, not full-on biting him or too timid to have him doing all the work. Plus, he’s afraid if he tries to get up now, he’ll melt away into a puddle on the floor.

But then Harry remembers that thing Louis said only minutes before, and if that wasn’t enough of an invitation then—

“I want…” he trails off, has to steady himself, because now Louis’ hands are trailing up his back, calloused palms eliciting goose pimples in their wake. He squeezes his knees into Louis’ hips, but Louis only pauses, doesn’t remove his distracting hands. “I want t’watch you get off; show me how you do it.”

Seems like that wasn’t what Louis expected to hear.

“Yeah? Want to watch me?” he digs his nails in a bit, too blunted to do more than threaten a pleasurable scratch.

“Mhm. Want to watch you make yourself come,” and it’s so naughty, isn’t it? He has to nibble along the shell of Louis’ ear, whisper into it to make him shiver. “Want t’see how much of a mess you can make. Teach me.”

Louis shudders underneath him. Hides away in his neck. His breaths are heavy in deep; either stabilizing himself or drinking in more of Harry’s scent, saturated from the source. Maybe both at once. Harry feels warm in his chest at the thought that his summery, blooming scent is as calming as it is to Louis as it is arousing.

“Bedroom?” Louis asks, with a tinge of hope in his roughened cadence.

His lips are pressed to the pale, vulnerable skin bare of marking. It’s such a sensitive area, most people Harry has been with, as few of them as there have been, have often avoided that part of him, too scared of accidentally biting, bonding them together. Louis, though, seems so drawn to it, if only to scent him. It’s clear that’s what he’s doing now; Harry can feel his rounded nose rubbing against where his scent comes out the strongest, right over the gland, egging out more flowery orange blossom and clove with the slight pressure.

It’s distracting enough he almost forgets to answer. He only gives a little shake of his head, thrilled at the prospect, and he’s being lifted up as if he weighs nothing.

He gasps in surprise, both at being picked up and how easily Louis had done it. He locks his ankles low on Louis’ back and wraps his arms around his neck, causing Louis to laugh softly, reinforce his newfound hold under Harry’s thighs.

At least, like this, Harry can get some scenting of his own done. He’s greedier, too, and rubs his whole cheek into the same spot on Louis’ own neck. Louis only digs his fingers into the meat of his thighs in response, releases another pleased rumble.

He stops at the doorway to Harry’s bedroom, despite the door being left open. Though he doesn't say anything, it’s clear he’s hesitating for a reason, and that’s because he’s likely just remembered that Harry keeps his nest out in the open. In contrast, Louis’ bedroom is a safe space Harry’s allowed to freely venture because his flat has a hidden nook meant for nesting, which Louis has fully utilized.

Despite their closeness and whatever it is happening between them at this moment, it doesn’t mean Louis is automatically welcomed into the space where Harry nests. It’s almost like vampire rules, or maybe those rules of fiction are based in this reality instead—you’re meant to be invited first. And Harry hasn’t yet invited him.

Louis’ generosity to this fact makes him all the more wanted.

“Y’can go in,” Harry assures, still nuzzled into his neck. When Louis doesn’t immediately step forward, perhaps hesitant due to all the pheromones being traded between them potentially clouding judgment—who says respect within the bounds of intimacy can’t be hot?—he softly encourages, “s’alright, Lou, just settle us down on the bed,” and kisses right over his scent gland.

It’s enough motivation, thankfully, because Harry finds himself gently deposited on his bed just seconds later.

Louis extricates himself painfully slow, as if he has to rip himself away from the clutch of Harry’s greedy limbs, and before Harry can leap up onto him, pull him down onto the mattress: “Just gonna use the toilet, love, I’ll be right back.”

Harry allows him to go, missing his warmth as soon as it leaves him. As the door clicks shut, he spreads out on his back atop the bath towels and heat pads he’s laid over the top sheet, his duvet rolled up and resting on his grandad’s old armchair in the corner of the room, adjacent to his nest.

Raising his head slightly, Harry spares his nest a glance. The gauzy overhang is pinned back, openly showcasing the artful way he’s moved the cushions about, laid more down. Even at just a glance, there’s definitely more room to it than there was before and it appears more plush, something nicer to sink down into. He turns to the door to the en suite and back, considering for a moment.

The idea of Louis in his nest—he’s entertained it before. Has let his mind drift to the thought of Louis laying him down in his nest, passing him clothes as he sheds them to line the edges, allotting Louis to do the same with his own clothing until they’re both stripped to nothing but bare skin and washes of ink, moving together as one and rubbing their scent down into the fabrics and covers.

Has thought about Louis in his bed, too, doing much of the same. And now he’ll actually be getting some semblance of that—who would have thought? Certainly not Harry.

Louis returns to him not long after, only he skirts out of the bedroom without much of a word. Harry sits up on his arms, understandably confused, but Louis thankfully returns but a moment later with the duffel over his shoulder and a coy smile barely tamped down on his blushing face.

When he crawls up next to Harry on the bed, careful to mind all the towels and pads laid down, his scent is coming off that much stronger. The notes of smoky coffee have mellowed to something earthier, while the cinnamon sugar and spice have grown almost cloying, thick on Harry’s tongue as he doesn’t even try to be subtle about scenting out the air.

Louis either doesn’t care, or he’s too focused on digging into his tote of mysteries to notice. Either way, Harry rolls closer to him and peers inside.

“Nosy,” Louis tuts, lacking any heat as he closes off one side of the now-open bag.

Harry pouts. “I only want to see what it is you’re working with, stingy.”

“You’ll see soon enough,” Louis sounds amused by this; it takes Harry a moment to realize his innuendo and allows his toes to curl in his socks, pleasantly intrigued. “Aha! Here we go…”

Magically procuring a black drawstring bag, Harry’s brows raise in curiosity.

He watches, intrigued, as loosens the string and dumps out—a medium-sized scarlet dildo, right into his hand. It’s not quite realistic in its modeling, too stiff and lacking detail with a notable curve in the center, but the size is similar in length and width to an average beta cock. There’s a slightly bulbous tip on the usable end and a metallic base that Harry can see is set with a few different buttons, likely for speed and pattern settings.

Harry then turns onto his belly and peers into the duffel before Louis can hide its contents from him again and finds, with wide eyes, several other similar bags and some random packages stacked upon each other. He stares back up at Louis in endeared disbelief, scoffing when he finds Louis already grinning smugly at him.

“You’re not planning on using all of these, are you?”

“No, but having the variety available’s nice,” Louis says with shrug. “And I don’t know what you’re planning to do in the meantime, but if you’d like to use any,” his brows raise slightly, voice smoothing, “they are all good and tidy.”

Harry gulps. Risks a glance over his shoulder to his nearest bedside table, a pale wood thing with three drawers already filled to the brim with an assortment of different drawstring bags and plastic packaging, a few divisive plastic containers for the smaller pieces, like a set of love eggs and a few small, jelly-like masturbatory sleeves he’s yet to break into.

Coughs, “I think m’covered, actually…”

With a chuckle, Harry feels the mattress dip and Louis is now laid parallel to him, laid partially on his side. He reaches out with inked fingers that brush down Harry’s spine, nearly egging a purr out of him, and watching his hand as it hesitates above the inch of pale skin left revealed by Harry’s jumper riding up. He doesn’t say anything though, and his eyes are slightly downcast now.

There’s an abrupt shift in his demeanor, and Harry tilts his head in a question, shuffles awkwardly over to close the minute space between their bodies. Doesn’t care if he messes up the arrangement of towels; if he were to roll over, he’d likely knock Louis in the nose or chin, and that might put a real damper on things before they even get a chance to start.

He says nothing as he tips his head again, this time to rub his cheek against Louis’ shoulder, a silent show of comfort. Louis bows his head slightly so their foreheads press together, and Harry watches, cross-eyed, as Louis’ eyes fall close, lashes fanned over the tops of his cheeks. His nostrils flare on an exhale.

It’s a comfort to feel Louis’ hand on his back, the warmth of it radiating through his top despite its hesitation to touch him bare, nevermind the inviting stretch of naked skin just out of reach; though it’s not enough that he doesn’t notice a shift in Louis’ scent, which was moments ago heady with arousal, now dampened to something less sweet and spiced, more so smoky and acidic—anxiety.

Louis isn’t having doubts now, is he? Of course, rationally, it would make sense, as much as Harry wishes it didn’t. They were already set to traverse far outside the usual bounds of their friendship, and now they’ve invited a deeper intimacy into things, allowing them both to be more vulnerable than initially planned.

He blindly reaches for Louis’ other hand, finding it and squeezing softly. “Hey,” softly, nudging with his nose again, “you okay?”

After a beat Louis’ eyes flutter open, only a blur of blue, and Louis gives a resolute sigh.

“S’not just about today, is it?” he asks, his voice low and quiet.

Harry rubs his thumb over Louis’. “What is?”

“This,” nudging with his forehead.

And—oh, oh. Harry eyes widen and he understands. Realization hits him with the same sudden force as the relief does.

He shakes his head and works to slot his fingers between Louis’, to squeeze his hand again. “No,” firmly, but not sternly, “no, it’s not. I couldn’t with you, do this, any of this,” he swallows, turns his head to rub their warm cheeks together, “on a whim. It means too much to me.”

When Louis pulls back to lock their eyes, read him proper, Harry reiterates: “You mean too much to me.”

The neutrality in Louis’ face instantly melts away, a half smile replacing the straight line of his mouth and his eyes crinkling slightly in the corners, leaving only fondness to be found.

“So do you—to me,” and his nose scrunches fondly, looking very deserving of a kiss Harry will withhold bestowing for now. “I admit, I may have had…” considering, he tips his head, “selfish intentions, when I came over today?”

Snorting in fondness, Harry’s chest feels light, a guilty weight he hadn’t known was there lifted off, even as his heart is left full and spilling over with affection.

“You mean you didn’t just come over here to teach me the ways of…”

“Oh c’mon now, you can say it,” Louis goads, his grin widening.

Harry ducks his head and shakes. “But it sounds so dirty,” he groans, “why do we even call it that?”

Really—squirting? Is there no really no better descriptor? Or at least a replacement for it to be used in conversation out of dirty talk?

Louis bumps their shoulders, chuckling at his embarrassment. “Well that is what happens.” Harry only grumbles, still hiding his face. “But I guess you wouldn’t really know that firsthand, would you…”

Oh? Harry immediately peers at him, his brows jumped and lips parted, still slightly puffy from their earlier kissing, in a surprised ‘o’.

“Are you making fun of me, Louis Tomlinson?”

Of course he is. Louis grins sharply at him, raises his brows once.

Harry is hopelessly endeared by him.

“Oh, you fucker—“

“Hey, hey! We’re here to try and fix that today, aren’t we?”

But Harry still manages to push him over onto his back, clamor on top of him. He’s more than aware Louis is deceptively strong, though, so when he reaches for Louis’ hands, he doesn’t put down enough of his weight to pin them down to the towels on the mattress. Looming overhead, Louis stares upwards like the wind’s been knocked out of him, but there’s a pink in his cheeks that clarifies otherwise.

“Are we now?” Harry teases, rubbing his bum backwards slightly.

Louis actually gulps. “Well, if it doesn’t happen today, maybe it will another time?” he smiles weakly and the spice in his scent kicks up. “Only, ehm, if you’re up for it, though.”

Harry straightens slightly, steals a moment to feign mulling it over, but he quickly resigns, pins his bottom lip between his teeth—he thinks his answer is obvious. He nods for posterity anyway, and leans down good and close, barely brushing his nose against Louis’, before he plants a petal-soft kiss to Louis’ mouth.

“I think I’m up for it.”

He kisses Louis again, as soft as a moment ago, and loosens his grip on Louis’ hands to steady himself with his hands cupping Louis’ face towards him. Louis’ arms immediately come up around him, a sturdy hand finally slipping back up under his crewneck, while the other cradles the back of his neck.

These kisses are chaste and teasing, both of them pulling away before the other can sneak out a tongue or belay a playful nip, giggles exchanged between. An offset to the thickening in their scents—the same candied spice from Louis, and pithy spiked blossom from Harry.

This time, Harry allots himself a slow grind in Louis’ lap. With the angle he now holds over Louis’ body, their torsos pressed close and his legs bracketing Louis’ thighs, he can get some pressure on his cock, as well as the slightest drag over where he’s getting proper hot, up between his spread legs.

Louis’ wandering hand is quick to squeeze his hip, his thigh, cup his bum. The first contact of palm to cheek causes Harry to gasp, pull back slightly, and Louis to scrape his teeth deliciously over the hook of his jaw.

His breath catches at the sweet sting of it, sharp canines dragging over his skin just as blunt fingertips dig into his bum through the thin fabric covering him, and he has to turn his head to steal oxygen. But—Louis is relentless.

He sucks at Harry’s earlobe before giving it a little bite, bee sting, his breaths heavy and hot puffing out against the vulnerable side of Harry’s neck. He noses behind his ear, then down, under his jaw, finding the tendon that runs down the column of his throat, and sucking a toothy mark as far down as he can reach.

Each minute movement on Louis’ end leaves Harry reeling, panting. His neck, like many omegas, is littered with vulnerable, sensitive spots, not even counting his mating strip or scent glands, and Louis seems to pinpoint each one without thought.The sharpness he teases with his teeth excites the masochistic tendencies Harry barely keeps hidden, causing pleasure to curl knife-sharp through his belly.

He’s getting wet, he knows it. Can feel that familiar swirl south of the border, the heat growing within.

“Can we—we’ll speak about this later?” panting, praying there’s enough hopefulness coming across in his tone, a little desperate edge to, “about us?” as Louis’ hips roll slightly up, into his.

Because, yes, they should speak on this properly, but he doesn’t think he’ll be able given… current circumstances.

Thankfully, Louis nods right into his neck, clearly hearing him and understanding. “‘Course,” laving a wet kiss along the edge of his bonding point, “want to, just—got a lesson to teach you first,” he squeezes the back of Harry’s neck gently, causing him turn back, finding a stormy sea, “don’t I?”

Harry nods helplessly. “Yeah,” pressing a relieved sigh to Louis’ mouth more than kissing him, “need it, please—“

Somehow, Louis manages to sit them up—god, that’s fucking hot—and slides both his hands under Harry’s bum. He turns carefully and, up on his knees, scoots them toward the mountain of pillows stacked against the headboard. He lays Harry down softly, contrasting the oof he releases as he does so before pulling away.

Harry’s not sure what he expected next, but it surely wasn’t Louis starting to strip just inches away from him.

The afternoon sunshine lights him up golden on one side as he strips himself of his t-shirt. Harry’s mouth waters at the sight of his torso, all lean muscle with a touch of softness at his belly. Past glances have always been schooled and stolen, careful only to linger when no other eyes watched him, but now, he needs Louis to know he’s watching.

Watching as his shirt is pushed to the floor, and how he situates on his bum to peel off his socks, also leaving those to the floor. Harry turns onto his side, curious, as Louis wordlessly scoots himself to the edge of the mattress. Pushes himself to a stand and undoes the tie on his joggers, some slim-cut black Adidas number that sculpts his legs and arse enticingly.

He’s turned to Harry as he pushes them down his legs, leaving him in only his underwear.

Harry decides then that this room is getting very warm, very fast, and he needs to do something about that—like sitting up and starting to undress himself.

Perhaps putting on a bit of a show, he delicately peels off his socks, then his leggings, shedding them to the floor just as Louis had. Harry is careful in his movements, going slow to reveal each inch of skin, track Louis’ hungry eyes he feels gliding over him as he works.

He’s a bit less graceful getting the crewneck off, some of his hair coming loose from his bun in the process, but once he’s free of his top, he decides to undo the elastic and secure it around his wrist, allowing his curls to fall loose around his shoulders.

Giving his hair an artful shake, he lays back out half onto his side, half on his front, now with his legs to partially skew Louis’ view of his knickers. He delights in finding Louis drinking in the sight of his body, tracing over him from ankle to shoulder, and the tattoos littered between, many of them etched by his own hand—such as the crescent moon above Harry’s right outside ankle, the pansy blooms on his left shin, the angelic cherub soaring on his right bicep.

Watching still, Louis’ fingers tease the white Calvin Klein waistband on his briefs, snug and grey and high-cut into his furry thighs, cutting off just above the cross-hatched scorpion running up his right leg, but hesitates before tugging them down. Harry’s wanting gaze on his paused fingers flicks upwards and, finding Louis’ eyes dark and hungry on him, tongues at his bottom lip. As if giving permission.

It must be what he was searching for, as with one steadying breath, Louis is peeling his Calvins down his thighs.

Harry’s eyes follow the fabric until it’s plucked from around Louis’ ankles, then tracing back upwards.

Louis’ happy trail, soft and brown, starts at his navel and grows slightly darker and coarser as it nears his pubic bone, where it divulges into a trimmed patch running from his pubis down the plush outer lips of his cunt. His clit is heavily hooded, puffy and blood flush, standing out proud from his labia.

Harry’s mouth is immediately left watering at the sight. Squeezes his thighs together despite knowing his arousal is clear—both sweet in the air, and through the thin, seamless black panties he’s wearing, simple soft cotton with a scalloped lace trim that frames his hips, cuts off high across his bum cheeks. The small bulge of his cock is framed perfectly by them and the position of his legs, but it would take some investigation to find the damp patch already darkening the area between his thighs.

A red flush has already gone splotchy down Louis’ chest. It bleaches peach in the sneaking sunlight watching them through the open window against the far wall, but the shadow left shows its true strawberry tone against his golden skin.

Harry can’t help but say it: “You’re gorgeous.”

Louis is stepping back up onto the bed now, and pauses mid-crawl, only one leg back up. He offers a sheepish smile.

“Look who’s talking,” and hoists himself the rest of the way back up.

He nudges in close again. Lays on his back against the plush wall of pillows still stacked up against the headboard, the stretch of his body completely on display, and now within touching proximity.

Harry greedily trails his eyes from the older tattoos at the base of his strong legs slowly upwards, over the abstract linework pattern following freckles along his knee and the scorpion covering his right thigh; budded, thorny rose stems carving out his hipbones; the stippled bursting star centered between his pectorals; spiked chains climbing his ribs and It Is What It Is looping across his collarbones.

He can feel Louis watching him in turn, even as he lays partially twisted and covered, if only for a bit longer. It’s clear, though, that Louis isn’t quite sure where to start, or how to, as his fingers trace the looped thread in the towels rather than along his own body.

Not wanting nerves to get the better of either of them, Harry decides to steals his right hand and raises it to his mouth. Feels Louis’ eyes hot on him as he kisses the squared off tips of his fingers with the tiniest pecks before drawing the index and middle into his mouth. Louis’ breath hitches as Harry swirls his tongue around them, scraping the pronounced knuckles with his teeth.

He doesn’t give much, just a tease, and withdraws Louis’ hand to examine his work, pleased to see Louis’ lips parted and his fingers adequately slicked in response. Though, it does surprise when Louis pushes into his mouth on his own a moment later, and reaches far back to press down on the back of his tongue, threatening to breach his throat, before swiftly withdrawing with a wet pop.

“For posterity,” he notes, and Harry burns.

Louis’ chest rises and falls with a steadying breath, and he brings his left arm up behind his head, propping his head up slightly. His wet fingers start at the thorns lacing his hip, trailing down his inner thigh, to hesitate just above his cunt. Harry scoots down on the mattress so he’s nearly laying flat to it, level with Louis’ hips, and turns slightly more onto his side, nearly full on belly now. Bites down onto his lip to suppress a pitiful noise when Louis slowly spreads himself open.

He doesn’t open himself all the way, and given the angle he’s laid at, Harry can quite see in, but he knows by the sound elicited as his fingers push his lips apart, that Louis is wet at his center. Confirms this when Louis withdraws his hand to showcase clear spider’s silk strung between his attending digits, and sighs contentedly.

“That’s all you,” he says, his voice soft with fondness but mildly breathy with arousal.

Harry’s toes curl and he clenches at the edge of a pillow; a fresh pearl of slick threatens to drop out of him. He’s not even touched himself or Louis yet and he doesn’t think he’s ever been this turned on in his life.

Now, Louis’ index and middle fingers are back on his cunt, bordering either side of his small, fat cock. He squeezes softly and releases a heavy exhale, repeating the motion a few times to make his cock pulse between his fingertips. It’s shiny with slick, and dusky red rather than fleshy pink, all dark and swollen with arousal. Harry wants to fix his mouth over it. Suckle at it to see what noises it can pull from Louis’ chest.

And then Louis starts stroking himself. He incorporates his thumb into it, allowing more freedom of movement. Almost plucking at himself.

Harry’s fascinated by the slow, practiced movements of it. It seems more a teasing pace than an active one, but he’s not about to question Louis’ process—even if their bits are slightly different. Makes him wonder, minutely, if this is why he’s not been able to make himself gush.

He’s one of those omegas where his small cock only serves to be a source of pleasure; doesn’t serve much purpose other than wanking, or, should the opportunity present itself, fucking, despite the fact that he both can’t grow rigid like alphas and the applicable betas can, and the only thing that he can work out from his tip is small drips and beads of precome and minorly seeded release.

He has all the same sensitive nerve endings that Louis has, with the bonus of a tiny nook underneath his cock also run with nerves—a common genetic mutation for those with plumbing like his—but he wonders, even if he’s connected similarly, if his cock is to blame for things?

“Awful quiet over there,” Louis teases breathily, easing pulling Harry from his thoughts. He’s still slowly stroking his cock. “I haven’t interrupted you, have I?”

Harry hides his face in his arm, having the decency to blush. “No,” he shakes his head. Peeps one eye out. “Hey, Lou?”

Louis pulls his hand away to lick at his fingertips. “Mm,” sounding concentrated.

It feels silly to ask, but, “Do you… you don’t think that m’bits are why I can’t… you know.”

Louis turns to him and—scoffs. Surprising Harry, who comes out of hiding in the crook of his arm.

“H,” calloused fingertips rub at the hood of Louis’ clit, “it’s not your bits, I promise.”

“But how do you know that? It’s not like we’ve got the exact same equipment to work with.”

“Because,” Louis shrugs one shoulder, peering down his body as his pointer finger lightly strokes the poking tip, causing his breath to catch, “I once made an O with a full set of both squirt all over m’hand. Spunked up to his chin, too, he did,” he chuckles, dry, “had to hold his cock and balls out of the way when I did it, but fuck, did he shoot off.”

“Okay, thank you for that very colorful mental picture,” Harry grumbles, his cheeks hot from both the idea of Louis’ fingers ability to do that and the prick of jealousy he feels at the mention of another person.

Louis’ toe pokes his ankle and Harry looks up to him, if scowling slightly. Louis scrunches his nose and reaches over with his free hand, since resting on his waist, to sooth the crease in his brow.

“Ah, no need t’be jealous, love, m’all yours,” he coos.

Harry can’t help but nuzzle into Louis’ palm; he is now, isn’t he?

A few minutes pass of Harry quietly watching as Louis teases his cock, alternating between circling the head, stroking with his thumb, and working it between two fingers and pumping like that. He can smell their scents growing ever spicy-sweet in the air, their arousal only increasing despite their lack of shared touch. Can smell Louis’ slick, too, pleasantly heady and inviting, wanting to get some on his tongue before all this is over.

The longer Louis strokes himself, though, he ponders if Louis is able to squirt without penetrating himself at all. He knows it possible, and it’s not like Louis’ at all clarified his process besides alerting Harry that he can do it.

“How’d you learn you can do it?” When Louis casts him but a wayward glance, a clever crook to his mouth, Harry begrudgingly clarifies, “Squirting, I mean,” there, are you happy?

“On accident, actually.” It’s admirable how unaffected Louis’ voice is, despite the added rasp and slightly breathier quality to it; Harry can barely string a legible sentence together when he’s in the throes of it. “I was still at me Mum’s, y’know, having a wank before bed. I didn’t really like putting things inside yet, but I was feeling brave, stuck a finger in.” He pauses to swallow and and start petting over his slit, stroking between the plush lips, but not dipping inwards yet; Harry really wishes he was laid between his legs right now, getting a proper view. “Was poking around a bit, ‘til it felt good. I just sort of, like, flicked me finger around inside while rubbing off, not really knowing what I was doing, and,” he moves his hand away, mimicking an explosion, pew!, “man, it got everywhere, like, all over me pants and the sheets. Don’t even think I was finished get off yet.”

Harry fists his hand into the towel he’s found harder. His cock starting to ache dully, unattended, between his legs. Wouldn’t be surprised to reach back and feel himself start to leak through his panties, either.

“What did you do?”

“Freaked out a bit,” and they both have to laugh a bit at that; naturally. “I thought I’d gone and pissed the bed!” Louis sighs, seemingly at the memory, and shakes his head at his past foolishness. “Was so goddamn embarrassed I stripped the bed and put everything in with the washing. When Mum asked why I changed m’sheets in the morning, I made up some bullshit excuse that I’d been watching a scary film in bed and spilled tea everywhere.” His nose scrunches up fondly. “M’pretty sure she didn’t believe me, but she’s never asked me about it since,” the thank god goes unsaid, but it’s clear enough by the relief clinging to Louis’ voice.

“Your mum wouldn’t,” Harry assures, because she wouldn’t, and neither would his own mother; Louis gives him a nod in agreement. “What about, uhm, after that?”

Louis’ only resting his hand over his cunt now, and he hopes he’s not being too distracting with his questions. Louis doesn’t seem to mind though, humming in thought, and sinks down further on the pillows, falling deeper into them in the process.

“I mean, I didn’t know what’d happened for awhile, so I didn’t try it again. Always used the toilet before I wanted to have a wank, just in case. Then I figured out and,” he tips his head in thought, “for awhile, it just sort of happened, so I couldn’t tell when it would, like, happen. Didn’t know how or why, either. Ended up doing a bit more washing than I wanted to.” He seems unbothered by this. “I guess I just sort of got curious and went looking for answers, did some messing around—both by me’self and with some other people,” he throws Harry a scant sideways glance, almost apologetic; Harry shakes his head, no worries, “and I got it down pat.”

“You can control it now, then?”

“Pretty much, yeah.” Louis nods and starts to rub at himself again, now with a bit more fervor, likely from having taken a pause. “Like, it doesn’t always happen—if m’not that into it or ‘ve not had much to drink, it usually doesn’t, which is alright; I’d rather have a good wank or a solid shag than to bust all over every time, regardless of how nice or shit it is.”

Harry nods in agreement. He has to look away from Louis, though, down at the mass of differently colored towels they’re laid on, instead. He feels a little foolish for making it such a goal, now; a few of those wanks were miserable ones, in hindsight. Not worth his efforts in the end.

“Makes sense,” he replies, small.

He sees Louis’ arm move away in his peripheral, though, and gathers to courage to make eye contact again. Sees Louis studying him, his gaze inquisitive. He wants to ask ‘what’, but then Louis flicks his chin to the duffle situated by their feet.

“D’you think you find me that red toy, darling?”

Harry wordlessly gets up and crawls over, starts to card through the nondescript bags for one with a loosened tie. It thankfully only takes him a moment and, reaching into it, finds the same dildo Louis had presented to him earlier. He turns on his bum and offers it before coming to crawl close again, but this time, Louis clicks his tongue, causing him to pause.

“You said you wanted to watch, didn’t you?” he asks, a clear edge of invitation there.

Harry is quick to nod, eager but unsure of where to settle, now; planting himself directly between Louis’ legs feels too forward, but the way he was laid before didn’t allot him the whole picture. He sits there dumbly, hair in his face and his knickers damp, cock bulging the dark cotton, but Louis takes pity on him with a trill of a laugh, patting just beside him.

“Sit here; then you can move to see better.”

Harry obeys easily, following Louis’ lead. He sits awkwardly at his side, canid, but then Louis crawls forward to spare him a kiss on his temple, squeeze the back of his neck softly.

“Gorgeous,” Louis praises.

Harry can’t help preening, especially when Louis combs some of his hair away from his face, brushing the dark tresses off of his shoulders. He steals but a glance down Harry’s own inked torso, past his pebbled nipples and flush-splattered belly to his lap, view obstructed by his crossed legs. Harry nearly parts them, but remembers that it’s not his turn, yet. He’s meant to be learning.

Louis must sense the murmur of impatience within him, because he squeezes the back of his neck again, this time with an added pressure and a thumb teasing the edge of his marking strip. Harry very nearly melts at the contact, barely suppressing a purr that rumbles through his chest and his eyes fluttering momentarily closed.

“I can smell how turned on you are,” Louis’ voice is velveteen in his ear, “bet you’re leaking through your knickers right now, aren’t you?”

Harry nods feebly, his head bowed slightly under the weight of Louis’ palm. Whether Louis could sense the evidence or not, he’s too turned on to try lying.

“Your little cock, too,” and Louis reaches for him, only using his fingertip to poke the tip where it’s started to get dewy, a tiny spot of darkness at the front panel of his panties. Harry jolts at the contact, sucks in a breath, but Louis’ hand moves away before he can try to push into it. It earns him a pleased tut, that same hand soothing over his thigh instead, but Louis’ saccharine tone softens to gentle concern when he asks: “You alright, angel?”

Angel, isn’t that lovely? The love’s and darling’s sprinkled throughout Louis’ vocabulary are common endearments, habits of growing up Northern, and they always cause him to go warm, but this, angel, oh, if Harry were standing now, his knees would be buckled.

But—he’s not about to lose the opportunity to watch Louis fall apart at the doing of his own hands. He can be patient; he’s sure of it. He’s perfectly fine.

“Yeah, m’good,” despite the rawness of his voice, he must reiterate, “want to watch you.”

Louis pets his thigh, grins with a pursed-lip smile. His answer comes in a chaste kiss that he tilts Harry’s head into.

“M’gonna get nice and messy f’you,” he promises, a breath against Harry’s wanting lips, “and then—we’re gonna have you do the same, aren’t we?”

We’ll try, Harry wants to say, but—he has faith in them. In Louis, in particular. He gives an affirmative nod instead and steals another kiss before Louis lets him go, falling back into position, half sitting up amongst the pillows. Harry obediently sits beside him with the toy in his lap, waiting to be called upon to pass it over.

In the meantime, though, he’ll mind his manners and prove himself an attentive student.

Louis picks right up as if he hadn’t stopped, only now, Harry can see everything as he rubs at his cunt—the dark brown hair matted down with slick trailing over his plush labia and the way it sparses out and pales along his inner thighs; the fluttery, pink petals of his inner lips plucked apart by his pressing fingers; the throb in his cock as it bumps into the heel of his hand with each upstroke.

It’s a true sight to see, as Louis’ eyes fall closed and his free hands skates over his sternum, barely flicking over his nipples before scratching down his belly, up the arches of his hips. His eyes will pinch with each bump into his clit or daring prod at his hole, and his pink mouth falls open and closed around varying degrees of breath. Harry wants the vision tattooed on the inside of his eyelids for his selfish safe keeping.

His heart nearly leaps into his chest when Louis removes his fingers with a wet snick, and brings his hand up to his mouth. Harry doesn’t mean to reach out and grasp Louis’ wrist, but he does, and when Louis’ eyes flash open, hardly a ring of blue left to his irises, watching curiously, he guides his hand to his mouth and cleans the mess from his fingers.

And god, he tastes divine.

The taste is nothing like the poetic descriptions of sugared fruits or edible equivalents of one’s scent found in romance novels—never is—but Louis is tart and bright on his tongue, delicious just the same. Honestly, the only slick Harry has tasted has been his own, his few dalliances with other omegas always cut off at a sloppy snog and maybe some grinding.

Maybe he just likes the taste of come, which is understandable, given his love for oral and taking loads on his face and tits, but he thinks he might be able to stay between Louis’ legs for the mere chance of a taste, forever.

“Fuck,” Louis rasps, as Harry starts bobbing his head over his fingers, having adequately cleaned them and now lubricating them up fresh. He’s eager to know, “Y’like that? How I taste?”

Harry hums in pleasure, his eyes having fallen close fluttering open again, and he nods around Louis’ fingers. Takes them deep into his mouth, pushing them into the back of his throat. If letting his one university boyfriend knot his mouth taught him anything, it was how to control his breathing and prevent himself from choking with a mouth—and throat—left full.

Louis is the one to withdraw his fingers, and just as hurriedly as he retracts them from Harry’s mouth, he’s got his hand back down between his legs and is rubbing the warm saliva over his pussy. Working it feverish into his cock and the slick leaving him sticky and shining.

Sucking on his fingers must have done something worthwhile to Louis, because as soon as he’s finished working Harry’s spit into the mess between his thighs, he sinks two fingers into his pussy, sighing as he breaches himself.

Harry tips forward to watch as Louis works them in steadily, not even teasing himself or warming up with one finger, a slower pace. Instead, he pushes until they’re pressed inside to the base of his palm, and then starts to rock his hand forward. It’s not a hurried motion, though, not like the harsh and fervent thrusting Harry had often watched wide-eyed and mildly horrified in various videos he’d perused; not like Louis’ trying to fit his entire fist into his pussy through sheer force.

No, he works methodically, careful. Each rock of his hand and seeming tap of his fingers has a purpose. And it must be working wonders, even if Harry can’t personally see what’s happening, because Louis quickly loses his earlier composure.

Gone are the careful pants and barely-there grunts. Now, that splotchy flush of arousal spreads like ink to paper across his skin, making his tattoos seem all that much darker under the burning scarlet.

Louis breathes loud and hardly curbs his notes of pleasure, though they leave him in deeper tones than they would Harry. He grunts and groans, his whimpers and whines release ragged and more cracked-off than pitchy. It doesn’t seem he’s putting on a show for Harry, either; his enjoyment feels unabashed and natural, which makes it all the more enticing to watch.

Harry wishes he sat differently, maybe up on his knees with his legs folded under him, so he could work his heel underneath him and use it to alleviate some of the dull ache in his cunt, though it’s probably for the best he can’t find friction this way; he doesn’t want an ounce of distraction from this.

Especially when Louis’ left hand flies down to his clit, and starts to round it in clumsy circles.

“M’gonna teach you what to do,” Louis suddenly slurs, as his head twists to the side, his eyes shut tight, “‘kay, baby?”

Harry nods despite not being seen. He reaches out and gives Louis’ hip a squeeze instead, which does the trick by the way a grin cracks momentarily across his blissed features.

Louis then sneaks his ring finger in beside the other two digits, once again slipping it right in instead of building it up. A fresh trickle of slick slides out of him in the process, and Harry’s mouth is actively watering. Wants to pull Louis’ fingers out of the way to get his mouth around where he’s spilling tangy nectar, or maybe lap around them, suckle at his cock at the same time.

His fingers are itching in his lap, too, but he grounds himself by gripping onto the toy and digging his nails, currently painted a shimmering, glittery red, into his own bare thigh. Bites hard on his tongue.

Louis starts talking again, despite the rapid rise and fall of his chest and the steady rock of his fingers causing his voice to shake.

“It helps when, when you’re already turned on,” he pants, and he actually pulls his fingers out, all three of them, allowing Harry but a glimpse of his wet, winking hole, and the clear sting connecting it to his sopping fingers. Explaining, “Can’t quite feel around your spot when, mm, you’re not already turned on…”

Harry is watching and listening so intently, he catches himself leaning forward, ducked down so he’s nearly bent over himself. Louis’ scent is thick in his nose, coming off in waves of cloying musk the closer he is to Louis’ groin thanks to the scent glands in his inner thighs signaling his arousal to any available parties.

“D’you have to touch there, to be able to?” Harry inquires.

Louis’ head shakes, though it looks more like he’s thrashing or trying to flick his fringe from his face, the chestnut strands starting to stick with sweat.

“Helps me, b-but no, y’don’t have to.” His three wet fingers pet rub between his outer lips, but he hesitates to insert them, because, “s’not really a spot anyway, more like an area, and it, it can be different for everyone, like,” Louis’ middle finger slips right back in, all give, “given we’re sort of built to take knots, O’s have a bigger area to work with? But s-still, there’s usually a spot within that area that, like, feels best to rub against—” and he moans, actually moans, breaking off to pant, “like there, fuck…”

Harry feels his resolve crumbling, and fast, dangerously so. His cock is now as hard as it will be, and is filling out the front panel of his panties, a clear enough bulge that’s knocking into his ankle with how his legs are crossed. Leaky where the tip points outwards.

His cunt is fully aching now, too, feeling dully empty and inaccessible under him. Leaking hopelessly with the wetness likely already having reached the towel under him, his panties a nearly nonexistent barrier. He’s envious of Louis’ cunt, of Louis’ finger within it, filling him even slightly and touching where he aches just the same.

Has to ask, pitifully so, “Lou…” sitting up straighter in the process.

It takes a moment, understandably, but Louis gasps as he slows the roll of his lone finger. Seems pained to do it, but he does, thankfully. His eyes flutter open to halfway and his brow creases, but when he sees what must be an unmistakably desperate expression stamped on Harry’s face—if the way he’s biting his lip ruddy and how hot his face feels are any tell—and tips his head to view Harry’s lap, his own tensed expression falters.

“You getting distracted there, love?” a breeze of a laugh, too desperate to be teasing.

No shame in the absolutely pathetic mhm Harry releases. Is embarrassingly close to sitting on his hands and rocking on them for some semblance of relief.

Louis gestures with a flick of his chin again, to his right side. “Oh, s’alright, baby, s’okay,” he soothes, a calming purr, “come settle down ‘ere, yeah? Get those pretty knickers off f’me, come on…”

Of course Harry rushes to comply. Driven by his desperation and Louis’ permission jointly. He sits up on his knees, nearly faceplanting in the process, causing Louis to shock with a bright laugh, then sooth him with a pout when Harry scowls at him.

There’s no artfulness to the way he shucks his panties off: he tugs them down to mid thigh and then bends to push them to his knees, falling to his bum to slide them off his calves, still smooth from a rare one-off shave had that morning, and then off his ankles, his onyx-painted toes.

He’s too driven to allow Louis a long, considering glance at his parts; once he’s left nude, he hurries up to Louis’ side, where he immediately lays out long, allowing only enough space between them for Louis’ arm to comfortably move.

“Kiss, kiss please—”

Leagues hungrier for it, he is. So is Louis.

These kisses are a sharp contrast to the ones had previous that afternoon. Shyness and fondness are traded swift for hunger and need, a mess of teeth pulling at plush lips and tongues teasing along seams and roofs, as if trying to consume each other whole. The lack of finesse is easily made up for in sensation.

Louis is the one that pulls back first, ignoring Harry’s unhappy whine to console with a peck to his nose.

“Hand me that toy, will you?” asked sweetly between pants. Harry obliges him shakily and receives a peck to the corner of his mouth. “Thank you, darling, thank you…” as he withdraws his finger again.

He doesn’t insert the toy in its stead though, oh no. He simply rests the dildo at his side, between them, and steals Harry’s left hand in his tacky one. Harry is torn between watching Louis’ face and his own hand as Louis trails it quick over his torso, which prickles with goose pimples in the wake of Harry’s fingers ghosting by, and drags it through the thatch of scratchy-soft hair, stopping only where he’s pulsing and fever hot.

It slips out, a jumbled, “Oh my god,” and Louis turns to nose his jaw.

“I want you to feel it, alright? Want you to know what to feel for,” his voice soothing against Harry’s cheek as he lines their fingers up, pushing down against Harry’s third and fourth fingers with his second and third until they’re curved right, then navigating them that much further down until they’re pushing between velvety skin, against the tightness of his hole.

Their fingertips just brush against it, petting once, then twice, and Harry’s fisting the towels in his other hand, his toes curling and thighs desperately squeezing his cock down. Without his underwear acting as a flimsy shield, he’s freely leaking down his thighs, his taint, and it hurts how empty he is.

Louis stops them from pressing into his body, permissing that, “Y’can touch yourself too, baby; y’do what you need to,” as he has to be able to scent the desperation amongst the arousal.

Harry lets out a breath of relief as he reaches behind himself; he just needs something to tie him over. His fingers trail down his crack, warm and damp with sweat and pooling slick, to his pussy. It’s an awkward reach given how he’s twisted towards Louis, but he manages to push his middle finger into his cunt, which is scalding, sopping, vice-tight.

“There we go,” Louis praises, a smile in his worn voice, “now…”

Their fingers breach together, slower than before, Harry groans at the sensation, the immediate clutch around their digits. Louis does, too, releasing it against Harry’s cheek.

His body is as silky soft as it is wet and impossibly tight around their fingers. Louis’ body contracts tangibly as they press forward, curling slightly in the process.

The secondary knuckles are swallowed up fast, and before Harry realizes it, there’s no deeper he can go; the entirety of his fingers are locked inside. He turns just slightly to try and read Louis’ expression, if it’s at all good or not, and Louis looks—absolutely ruined.

There’s sweat sparkling on his skin, a fiery crimson splattered from the tips of his ears down to his hips as if he’s been left standing under scandling water, and he’s breathing so hard, Harry fears he might up and pass out if he carries on a minute longer like that. That fear dissipates though, when Louis’ fingers presses against his own, curving them that much more, and urging them gently upwards. This causes them to rub something that feels slightly rougher than the surrounding silkiness, and a rhythmic tightening to occur when Harry experimentally pets over it.

“There it is,” Louis is breathily relieved, “mm, yeah, feels best here, f’me—at the far end of m’spot.” Hisses then, “Oh, fuck,” when Harry, with a surge of confidence at Louis’ bliss, starts petting in lapping upwards strokes. Louis noses in against his ear and whimpers, grinding down into the hold of their hands. Even with fingers moving deep inside, the movement is enough to elicit a sloppy, wet sound with each upwards curl. “Fuck, yeah, like that,” Louis pants, uncharacteristically pleading.

And Harry does obey.

His own finger is still inside of himself, more so reminding him of his emptiness than fulfilling any need, as he uses long strokes of his fingers to pet over Louis’ spot. Louis’ fingers can only follow the pull of his hand, bending with it for added pressure or urging him to go faster, tap lighter. Flicking over it, more like, but still wading in the deep that causes the knuckles on his hands to bump into the leaky mess of Louis’ pussy.

Though, he surprises when Louis extricates his own fingers suddenly, and brings them to rub his cock. Harry nearly removes his fingers, too, but when he notices Louis’ body start to quiver, and how he’s working himself with such fast swipes of his fingers, pressing his clit with a firm pressure at the same time, he knows that’s the last thing he should be doing.

But, to be sure: “Lou—?”

“S’alright, baby, keep, keep on doing that,” Louis pleads, grinding down into his hand hand, “fuck, you’re gonna make me come—”

That gets Harry excited. Makes his cock blurt between his legs and a fresh flood to escape around his finger.

He wants, no, needs to see it. That fleeting moment just a few years past, of Louis laid out in the dark, thrashing in bliss on his mattress as some other omega made him come on their mouth, maybe their fingers, too, he needs it replaced with something more tangible. By something made from his own hands.

Tumbling fast towards his orgasm, Louis is a mess of noise and movement. Loud loud loud. He’s panting hot against the side of Harry’s neck and releasing a mix of throaty moans and pitchy keens as he does so. His feet are mussing the towels, bunching them up towards the end of the bed, and his free hand clenches desperately at the pillows behind them, desperate for some kind of grounding, while the one working his cock moves at what be an aching rate.

All the while, Harry can only watch him with rapt fascination, trying to catalog every muscle twitch and shiver, at the same time he keeps his fingers working in both the right spot and right rate. With the way Louis hasn’t done any adjusting on his end, or murmured some kind of instruction for him to follow to make things better, he figures he must be doing something correctly.

Especially when Louis hiccups into his neck, “M’gonna, fuck, gonna come, baby,” babbling, “k-keep going, right there—”

Harry is awed at the rhythmic tightening around his fingers, even more so when the sounds of his fingers pushing into Louis get noticeably wetter sounding, as if splashing a pool of water.

Should he keep pushing? Should he pull back? How long does he keep at it? He’s as fascinated as he is aroused. Wants it for himself just as bad as he wants it from Louis.

Without much more than a sharp gasp, Louis clamps down on his fingers and, while still frantically rubbing his cock, he yanks Harry’s hand out by the wrist, right as a flood of warmth gushes around his fingers.

His whole body is locks up tight, his grip on Harry’s wrist bordering painful as a second wave overcomes him just as swiftly, causing him to grunt and another spray to burst forth. Harry can only stare down between Louis’ splayed legs absolutely dumbstruck at the sight.

It’s a proper flood, both times. The degree at which his cunt clamped down seems to indicate the pressure he’d expel, seeing how the evidence lays soaking the towels spread beneath Louis’ arse to one laid out close to the foot of the mattress.

“Holy shit,” Louis gasps, and rightfully so.

He’s breathing impossibly hard, his body quivering all over. Shaking, he cranes his neck to peer down his torso, giving his cunt one weak, little slap before he falls back to the bedding totally boneless, wrung dry.

“Fuck me, didn’t even need the toy,” he chuckles breathlessly, staring up at the ceiling. He then turns to his right, where Harry is now left nearly burning with desire—despite the newfound cramp in his wrist from having it bent and working at such an angle—and beams, bright as summer sunshine. “That was fucking brilliant, darling,” he praises.

He rolls over slightly to pepper Harry’s face with praising kisses, laying them from his forehead to the apples of his cheeks, down to the tip of his nose and dip of his cupid’s bow. He’s still a bit unsteady; Harry can feel it in the leg and arm resting atop him, holding him close for appraising affection.

“You weren’t kidding,” is all Harry can think to say, weak as he manages it.

Louis shakes his head with a cracked grin, clearly amused with his shock. “No, definitely not,” and he peers over his shoulder, likely at the mess he’s left behind, whistling low before twisting back around, his eyes wide. “Damn, got distance on that one, too!” He sounds completely elated by it.

Meanwhile, Harry feels too overwhelmed to completely appreciate the situation.

Like, he hadn’t known at all what to imagine when they’d arranged this, but it definitely wasn’t this—with his own fingers acting as the key to Louis’ doing, barely an hour after they’d only gone as far as kissing barely. Definitely hadn’t pictured feelings being so involved, let alone those reciprocated. It almost feels a dream.

And Louis may be absolutely debauched, settled half on top of him with his own wetness dew dropped all over the inside of his thighs, rubbing off on Harry’s from where he’s thrown his leg over him, peering down at Harry as if he just plucked him a bucket of stars from the night sky, but Harry still needs to ask, to have it reiterated to him:

“So you—did you like it? Did it feel good, I mean?”

Louis simply rubs the tips of their noses together, bunny kisses, and rumbles deep in his chest. Cups Harry’s cheek and strokes up the arch of it.

Affirming, “Felt amazing in me, baby,” and finds Harry’s worked fingers, now wrinkled with slick and tacky as they dry, to presses his lips to them, as if thanking them as well. “and didn’t you see? Nearly had me shooting off the bed, you did,” more kisses for Harry’s fingers, another vibrating purr ricocheting from Louis’ chest to Harry’s. “Think you should have your turn now, yeah? Deserve a reward, too, maybe?”

And Harry doesn’t want to be greedy; doesn’t want to come off as ungrateful for what he’s just done, because he knows he’ll be hung up daydreaming about the ravaged beauty of Louis’ form in rapture for months to come, hell, if not longer, a vision meant for grand cathedral ceilings, but—

he very much would like his turn, too. Thinks he may even deserve it, seeing as they joined together for the purpose of helping him. And—the mess he’s been making all his own already, honey dripping slow down his pinned thighs.

So, he nods his head, his chin tucked primly. “Yes, please,” a perfect show of his manners and need.

So Louis lays him out tenderly, like something precious. Porcelain and fine china. Always treating him with a gentleness he doesn’t grant himself—band-aids on Harry’s scrapes, dirt in his own wounds. Harry’s body unfurls like a morning bloom under his hands, too. He’s not sure what to do with his own hands, though, both of them free now, so he leaves them at his sides, gripping onto still-dry terrycloth.

It’s a little intimidating with Louis—who’s looking so effortlessly beautiful with his hair a bird’s nest and his skin tacky with sweat, come, and a slowly fading sex flush—looming over him. Considers if Louis felt just the same as he stripped himself bare as Harry hungrily watched him from the bed.

Harry steals a moment to size himself up, naturally. Really considering what it is Louis is inspecting.

First, he knows the rose flush he’s wearing is perhaps more obvious than it is on Louis due to hours in the office hindering the tan he usually starts getting now, as the warm season wafts in on an eastern breeze. His nipples are puffed and pointed, reddish brown and aching for some sort of attention, and his legs have been shaved smooth—nervousness on his end that morning leading to a near extra hour tidying himself up, for whatever ‘just in case’ may hold.

(He’s thinking now, maybe, Louis might just take him however he may be, and what a lovely thought that is, isn’t it?)

And of course, his cock lays half stiff against his left thigh, all drippy and ruddy at the tip, mirroring what lies between his legs out of sight, though definitely not out of mind.

Louis’ gaze sweeps over him appreciatively, a warm wave with each passing of his hooded eyes, his focus split between Harry’s flush face and his swelling cock..

Harry can still scent out Louis’ arousal, but the overpoweringly heady top note has faded with his past desperation. Speaking for himself though, he knows that’s not the case. He feels ready to itch out of his skin; is probably only able to lie still right now because Louis’ attention is all on him, and he feels a pull to behave, somewhat.

“Got me a real angel here, don’t I?” Louis coos then, finally, finally reaching out and splaying a hand on Harry’s tummy, under his butterfly, his nose scrunching when Harry immediately goose-pimples. Murmuring, “God, you really are beautiful, H,” as if speaking to himself, or maybe he’s simply unashamed in letting Harry eavesdrop on his praises, “swear, fucking hurts to look at you sometimes…”

How can Harry not purr at such honeyed words?

“You’re embarrassing me,” he near-whispers, all pink and lovely, tucking his chin under Louis’ attention.

“Just telling the truth,” and Louis thumbs over his left nipple.

The catch of his calloused skin on the sensitive bud makes Harry shiver, whine, again; too little for how far they’ve come. He almost fears he’ll be through the instant Louis hand reaches where he needs it most.

“Louis,” he grumbles, a scowling kitten, “stop teasing me.”

Louis chuckles, “Sorry, baby,” like he is at all.

He has to be the type to love teasing but gets stroppy when it’s done to him; Harry will have to confirm this another time though, because Louis is now scratching at his scalp while thumbing, plucking at his nipples, and it’s wiping any coherent thought save more more touch me more right from his head.

Can’t help but reach down and start circling the weepy head of his cock with his index finger, drawing pre up onto the tips, his palm, before closing his hand around the base. Releases a relieved sigh as he starts working himself in short strokes, as his closed fist touching the base already leaves the tip nudging out past his thumb on the downstroke. On the upstroke, he passes over the top of his cock, just to give himself some more working room, and sweeter friction.

He used to wish he had more, or even less to work with—something bigger to fist at, or something smaller he could simply roll about, instead of what he has. Now, though, he knows just what to do. Time has granted him the expertise with practice, and made him aware of the versatility he has to work with.

Louis’ watchful eyes fall warm over him, confirmed by a sideways glance. He seems fascinated by Harry’s movements. Like how Harry will stroke his cock like it’s too big in his hand when he can easily close his fist around it, hide it away, but also tease around the tip, rub the shaft with two fingers, dragging the foreskin up and down with it.

“Feel good?” Louis asks.

“Mhm…” Harry eyes easily flutter shut.

“Is this how you usually do it?” Louis’ honest curiosity is as clear as his intrigue, and he moves on from Harry’s nipples, finally, to trail down the line of his stomach, down between the laurels on his hips, pausing just above where Harry is now rubbing circles over the underside of his cock, as it pins up towards his left hip.

“Is that how you usually do it?” Harry cheekily asks in turn.

“Without borrowing someone else’s hand, yeah,” chuckling before he clarifies, “though m’not always in the mood for penetration; and even then, m’not one for a big stretch,” with a shrug, rubbing his hand over the downy hair trailing under Harry’s navel. “S’never done much for me just to be, like, filled up.”

“I like it,” muses Harry, now reaching under his cock, hooking his middle and index fingers slightly to rub over the nook there. “Other than not always having luck finding m’spot,” he pauses to shudder, circling the nook in a few quick circles that make his belly flip over, “oh—s’probably why I prefer using toys...”

Louis’ fingers are trailing closer to his groin, but they still don’t quite reach. Halting right at his pubic bone, where Harry’s waxed silky and smooth—another byproduct of this morning’s nerves.

It’s not like he has much hair down there anyway, most of it growing around the base of his cock and becoming sparser, lighter, from on the sides and downwards.. The hairiest he is is on his legs, then maybe his underarms, but he’s not even close to otter status, comparatively. He barely sprouts on his chest still, and the hair on his forearms has gone rather thin from all the shaving down for more tattoos.

Louis’ exploratory touch is ticklish on his bare, tender skin. He can’t help wriggling a little, accidentally dislodging from that sweet spot—damn. Sometimes it can be so hard to find that perfect angle again...

“What’ve you been using lately?”

Harry peeps up at Louis and finds him looking over his shoulder to the bedside table, then back at him. His brows are crooked in a question, but Harry feels, no, knows there’s an underlying, more devious curiosity concerning his cabinet of wonders.

“All of it,” he answers with a resigned sigh, flicks his chin towards the bedside table. “Have a look.”

He has to bite back a whimper when Louis’ hand abruptly trails off of his body, but is compensated by turning his head and getting a lovely view of Louis’ bum—his very firm, very round bum, slightly lighter than the rest of him—as he leans over the side of the bed, to start carding through the drawers.

As Louis goes searching, there are murmurs among the likes of I see someone fancies a notched toy and Christ, how do you even get this one inside? as packaging is rifled through and baggies go untied; Harry only dips his fingers back into that lovely spot under his cock and reaches out, giving Louis’ left cheek a proper grab.

Louis only wiggles teasingly, seemingly unbothered, but when Harry gets a bit more daring and pulls his cheek to the side, allowing a glimpse at his arsehole and his cunt, and runs a thumb down Louis’ taint to find his pussy still wet, nearly dripping all over again, Louis quickly spins around, oi!, and scowls at him, covering his offended cheek with one hand protectively.

Harry withdraws as if he’s just been rapped on the knuckles, and puts on a look of faux innocence.

Well—as innocent can be, with his bits out and scent thick with need. His eyes go big and shining, his bottom lip tinted strawberry and pouted.

“Hands off, ve had me turn,” Louis scolds, giving his bum a soothing rub. Grumbles, “M’already getting riled up again watching you and I’d rather like to stay focused, if you don’t mind.”

Very funny, that; Louis hasn’t even touched his cock yet, or had a peek at the mess between his legs.

“Watching what? You’ve barely touched me so far,” Harry points out, pouting, a little furrow in his brow, but not moving the placement of the hand pressing to his sex.

He needs the pressure there right now, otherwise he might just flip over onto his belly and rut against the towels, finger himself to completion, whatever that will look like, before Louis has the chance to shut a drawer on the nightstand.

Louis looks a little sheepish at the remark, but he shakes it off, droplets upon leaves, and scoots forward so his knees bump up against Harry’s side. He’s not the only one capable of dramatics; Harry is still pouting.

He can’t comfortably bend down to kiss the frown away, so he does one better—he comes around to sit by Harry’s knee, and taps his thigh. Confused, Harry squints at where he’s just been tapped and at Louis’ waiting face, what?.

Louis rolls his eyes and, “Up, move your—bloody leg,” tapping him somewhat impatiently.

Harry obeys, moving his left leg out of the way by bending it outwards, setting his foot to the mattress, alright, pushy. Widening his stance partially. Watches, then, as Louis knee-crawls into the new space created and pushes at his other leg, inviting him to do the same there, which he does. It’s only when Louis settles onto his bum, his legs partially tucked under him, to the side, that Harry realizes exactly what is going on.

And that Louis can see all of him, no preamble necessary.

As badly as he needs more, properly aching inside at his emptiness, his nerves left unplucked, he wants to cross his legs. Never mind if he’s already gotten an intimate, firsthand look at Louis’ bits and that Louis could see his whole cock just fine since he shed his knickers, Harry’s whole face still goes fever hot. When he tries to raise his legs up and pin his knees together, Louis stops him with strong hands on his ankles, as well as a disappointed crook to his brow.

“What, y’don’t want me to do anything now?” He clucks his tongue disapprovingly, tsk tsk. “Where’s that famous exhibitionist streak we all know and love, eh? Can’t be gone now, can it?”

Harry groans and throws his arm over his face. There’s so much heat in his cheeks he must fully be going tomato red from the neck up. He tries to cover himself with his legs again, but Louis’ grip only tightens and he drops more of his weight down into his hands.

“I never should have let you meet my mother, or let her think it was remotely okay to tell you those stories—”

“Or insisted on trying to get your kit off every time you had a few too many daiquiris, I know,” nodding, as if he’s heard it all before. Even if that is exactly what happens when Harry still has a few too many cocktails. There’s a devious grin laced through Louis’ tone, too, meaning he’s deriving some sort of sick pleasure from getting Harry embarrassed while he’s painfully horny and naked with the entirety of his pussy on display. The man is a fucking sadist. “But darling,” Harry daringly peeks out from under his forearm, surprised to find an expression mirroring only softness, no tricks up his sleeves, “there’s no need to be embarrassed, really.” He loosens his hold on Harry’s ankles, instead stroking up the bone he just held fast to. “Let me have a look?”

Hope shimmers in Louis’ eyes, a streak of sunlight hitting him just right and illuminating the visible blue left in his eyes tourmaline, oceanic, the softness held in his features doing enough work that Harry brings his arm back down and, tugging his bottom lip between his teeth, relaxes his thighs. Withdraws the fingers granting him the slightest pressure, and curls them into a fist that rests over his shaking butterfly.

Now, wholly unsheltered and with Louis’ full attention cast upon him, a fresh flood pours from Harry, a slick sound to follow. Immediately he whimpers, couldn’t be anymore embarrassed. Rubs his thumb along his bottom lip as he nibbles at it, staining it a sinful red, trying to distract himself.

How many times has he imagined this scenario? Gotten off to it? Has to be innumerable, and yet, having his wildest dreams and dirty fantasies spring so unexpectedly to life, he’s caught somewhere between absolutely mortified and the most turned on he’s ever been in his life. It’s a bit sinister, really, that arousal and humiliation walk hand-in-hand for him.

It’s not even as though he’s ashamed of his body or of Louis seeing it, but rather the depth of his need being fully put on display, no tethers left to bind it. Louis already had the sugary, pithy notes of his arousal in his nose, along with the headiness of his slick; could see the flush to his skin, the bulge in his knickers; had been affirmed of Harry’s want for him, for this, through spoken word.

It was one thing to be aware, another to simply know.

Harry has to crane his neck, sit up on his arms a bit to see, though; read Louis’ expression and minute shifts in his body language because, if he’s been reading things at all correctly, this is not the only time this will be happening, and he’s not about to become a prude only because it’s Louis he’s doing this with, and wants to do this with.

And, by the looks of it, Louis is—

he likes it.

He’s not done much but stare, but he’s barely blinked since Harry withdrew his last trace of protection. Harry can’t even imagine what kind of a mess he is down there, but—surely sopping wet, running a river there’s so much slick pouring from him he’s coated his inner thighs and arsecheeks and soaked through the light blue towel underneath him; swollen and ruddy pink.

Louis’ name lingers on his lips, ready in case Harry needs to knock him out of his daze, but Louis does so himself. His eyes go heavy and he licks over his lips, looking for a taste. He anchors one palm flat to Harry’s left thigh, shaping to the curvature of muscle and tendon, then reaches out with his dominant hand. Harry’s breath immediately hitches, feeling Louis’ thumb as he watches it trace from the start of his slit downwards, smearing his slick around.

“Christ, you’re fucking soaking…”

It comes out awed, as if he’s never experienced such a thing before. Or perhaps he’s marveling at how much has gathered considering how little contact Harry has had.

He repeats the motion a few times, up and down and back again. Never applying enough pressure to push past the flushed outer lips, but giving enough that Harry keeps on leaking. Wetting them both.

“Y’sure you’ve not squirted before?” asked so casually.

Hoarsely, Harry snarks, “I think I’d know if I was doing that instead of getting slick everywhere.”

Louis ignores his tone, pausing his ministrations. Doesn’t give Harry a moment to pout or whine, or say anything snippy himself, because he’s too busy taking abruptly Harry’s cock in his hand. Harry seizes as he pumps once, twice, experimentally, his grip sturdy but not choking. When he manages to squeeze out a dribble of pre, he smears it into the velvety skin, slightly tackied already, elated.

Harry’s toes curl and his arms shake under him, but he stays strong. Can’t understand how Louis can sound so normal asking: “How d’you usually get off, love? Is it like this?” when just a hand on his cock compresses the air from his lungs.

“Usually,” Harry wheezes, watching the tiniest shift in Louis’ wrist as he works his cock, now only using his thumb and first two fingers to do it, allotting for more working room. “I-It usually takes me touching there a bit to finish…”

“You like being filled up, don’t you?”

There’s a dark edge to it, like Louis already knows—and more or less, he does—but he wants Harry to confess anyway.

Harry responds in a nod, clawing at his breast. His glossy fingernails scrape over his nipples, painting red lines across an already flush canvas. The sting of it causes his hips to hitch and his cock to twitch in Louis’ hands, more fodder to the flood.

Louis is a voyeur between his legs, stroking him slow with three fingers, making sure their eyes stay locked all the while. Conveying to Harry through a longing stare silent reassurances, praises, inquiring him if what he’s doing feels good.

It’s a miracle, or maybe just odd, that Harry hasn’t come at least once already. He’s getting off on the intimacy as much as he is the sensation, embellishing the entire experience.

But he has to ask, before too long, for: “More, Lou, I need more,” in a pitiful croak; almost pubescent, the way his voice cracks.

Louis obliges him with a nod, smiling as he kisses Harry’s knee, his lips placing atop a fading scrape along the bone from knocking his knee on something at work. Promising him like that.

“Y’still want to learn? Or d’you just want me to get you off?”

He’s stopped rubbing Harry’s cock, allowing it rest again in the pale strip between his hip and thigh, but still tracing the vein running along the underside with a blunt fingernail. Almost tickling, causing a torturous sort of pleasure. It only serves to make Harry want to ask for more, to be selfish, forget the plan, just to make him come already, so Harry surprises himself when he asks—

“Help me?”

“Yeah?” Louis is eager, all bright eyes as he pitches forward, bending himself in a way that will likely ache his lower back later. “What d’you want me to do, angel?”

Everything, he wants to say, though that defeats the purpose of shared work, doesn’t it? But Harry’s sure has brain has melted to a fine soup, and that it’s a miracle he can manage a word at all, let alone process anything—like the terrycloth itching his back as it sticks to patches of sweat there, and how his hair is tangled from how he’s been thrashing against the pillows. Having a goal at hand must be helping him maintain what little focus remains.

“Keep doing that, let me just…”

He pushes himself up slightly with a grunt, getting back to half sitting up, Louis following him easily. He then reaches down his heaving body and rubs over his cunt. Feels so slippery, so open, he’s sliding through cream. It doesn’t take more than a dip or two to get his fingers lathered, and his body has caved away, relaxed itself for the purpose of filling, that the two fingers he hooks and presses in glide forward without a hiccup.

“Oh-h,” he moans, the note lilting upwards slightly before cutting off into a forced exhale.

Louis works just the same, but his eyes are locked just south of his hand, watching Harry’s instead. Watching more slick spill steadily out from around his fingers, nectar dribbling from between rosy petals.

Inside, every nerve running through Harry is alive, begging for a pluck or a tap. He’s sucking his own fingers in, spasming around them. Elated by each bump of a knuckle or fingertip until there’s nothing left to give and he’s as deep as he can go alone.

He feels it now, more so than the last few times he can recall—something spongy and slightly harder than the surrounding rippled heat he’s traversed. Felt it far shallower than before, too, maybe because he’s practically been edging himself this whole time.

“Found it,” he grits out, strangely proud of himself, like he’s never found his g-spot before, but Louis seems proud of him, nodding eagerly.

“Yeah? Where’s it feel best, baby?”

Harry angles his wrist slightly upward and taps right along the strip he usually ends up losing contact with. It makes his cock pulse fresh in Louis’ hand, all the rushed blood and waiting games making it nearly purple now.

Explaining, “S’far back, bit hard to reach…”

Louis encourages him all the way, praising, “You’ve got it,” and starting to rub his thigh, thumb the wet tip of his cock, praising him with stimulation. “Just keep at it, there you go.”

And Harry does, at least, he tries.

He rocks his hand up into himself, rubbing with his fingers so incessantly in the tight space they remain, tapping along where he knows it feels best, the heat sharp in his belly with each movement, but—he’s not being pushed closer to the edge. He’s so desperate now, maybe too desperate, that there’s a heavy lack of finesse to his movements. Has pushed himself too far for too long, maybe. Forcing himself to wait until he doesn’t want it anymore; can’t have it anymore.

A noisy squelching ruminates with each inward shove of his hand, and slick continues to soak his skin, likely sinking into the bedding he thought he was protecting, hoping that means something more, but—no, he’s stuck halfway up the hill. The boulder won’t budge.

The heat is only a simmer in his belly. No matter how he touches, the pleasure doesn’t cut through him as deep as it should. The instant he gets to thinking about it, his body seems to give up, deny him. Likely, though, he’s only worn thin and simply needs to give himself more?

“Can you just, like,” pinching his eyes shut and huffing impatiently, hoping Louis knows the not directed at him but getting too worked up to clarify that. Grits out, focused on rocking against his own knuckles, “I need a bit more, s’not enough…”

Louis says nothing, but seems to understand. His petting along Harry’s thigh has softened, the fervor lost in favor of comfort. He picks up the speed of his wrist, too, tightening the grasp of his fingers on Harry’s cock. Harry can feel Louis watching his face carefully now, likely trying to read him, but he knows all he’s giving in turn in a furrowed brow and bitten lip.

Another finger slips in with the hopes he’s simply not stretched enough, but that quickly proves to not be the case. Even as he starts edging his fingers out and thrusting them back in, bending himself over to allot such a movement with own his leg partially in the way, he knows in his gut that it’s simply not enough.

“I can’t, Lou, I don’t—” and he’s visibly frustrated by it. Knows he’s not going to, again, because this is something he’s simply not meant to have, and he’s cross with himself for caring so fucking much about it in the first place. Even more so given the fact he’s likely not even going to be able to finish off at all, and conceding with this, brokenly, “S’no use, I’m not—”

How stupid he feels, and over something so bloody trivial. Feels like he’s failed himself and Louis, now, too, as it means there’s a witness to his shortcomings. More salt sprinkled in the wound. His fingers halt their frantic movements in the molten, sloppy mess he’s made, and come trailing out with a wet suck.

Just like that, his orgasm slips out of reach, and that old, aching need starts back up in its stead.

“Fuck,” Harry rasps, hot with shame and empty in all the places it counts.

He starts rubbing at his eyes, fearful that frustrated tears come, the ones he feels already itching under the surface. Never mind the slick smeared all over his one hand, he has to hide away, doesn’t want Louis to see him.

But Louis, Louis doesn’t take that.

Immediately he’s dropping Harry’s little cock, hurriedly soothing him like, “Hey, it’s okay, shh, it’s okay,” in a soft, rasping candor as leans over Harry’s tired body, the dark ink and heat patches lining up between them. “S’alright darling, no need t’get upset now,” pushing Harry’s frantic hands away from his dampening eyes and thumbing up under them, rather safe than sorry, cupping his heated cheeks in his palms after he does so. “You’re alright, babes,” making Harry look at him, to see the honesty in that sparkling blue, “yeah? Just getting too worked up, thas’all.”

“M’sorry,” sniffs Harry, truly apologetic. He cups his hands over Louis’, to keep them cradling his face, trying to cement the comfort it gives. “S’so stupid, I don’t know why,” sniffling and starting over, “it just stresses me out so much, the second I get to thinking about it, trying for it…”

With an understanding hum, Louis presses kisses under each of his eyes, then sweeps under his lashes once more.

“S’cause you’re putting too much pressure on yourself. It’s not a competition, right? Y’need to relax, love.”

His weight over atop Harry is comforting, makes Harry want to bury into his body. He wraps his arms around Louis’ middle instead, keeping him close. And he knows Louis is right, but he doesn’t have the strength to admit. He can only nod feebly, cradled in Louis’ gentle grasp. Hoping he hasn’t mucked everything up—just as he’d feared he would.

After a long moment of quiet—which is probably only about fifteen seconds—Louis withdraws from him. Looks him pointedly in the eyes and starts slipping back down his body. Harry hasn’t a clue what he intends to do, because Louis keeps shifting down, even lower than he was before, and. Oh.

He starts to sit up, and Louis flattens a palm to his belly. “Relax,” reiterating in a near purr, and what else can Harry do but just that?

One of his legs is then raised and hiked over Louis’ shoulder, his heel falling to the angel wing of Louis’ shoulder blade. The other is laid to rest on the mattress, crooked slightly open, away from his body. Warm palms spread over his skin, keeping his legs situated in place.

Harry does his best to relax, especially when the ghost of Louis’ scruff tickles the insides of his thighs and he naturally causes to squirm. Kisses soothe the same sensitive spots following by sharp nips, then kisses again, and Harry can only grip the pillow laid behind him in hopes of it keeping him grounded.

Of course, he then feels the unmistakable steam of hot breath ghost over his slit, and he promptly grows rigid.

Asks the plain white ceiling, “Are you gonna eat me out?”

To which Louis chuckles against the thigh draped over his shoulder. “D’you want me to?” as if to imply that wasn’t exactly what the plan was.

Still, Harry nods his head frantically. There’s really nothing more he could want right now—other than, maybe, sitting on Louis’ face. And being able to finally curb the dull, aching want rooted in his belly.

“Please,” and Harry reaches out, blind, until he feels soft strands under his fingers. Combs through what he thinks must be Louis’ fringe, being careful not to seem like he’s being hasty, guilty head pusher. “Really want you to eat me out and,” swallowing, his throat so dry from all that heavy breathing, “make me come on your mouth.”

Louis actually groans beneath him, a rough, “Fuck,” then, one more chaste kiss to his thigh, “Christ, I swear, you’re gonna be the death of me…”

It comes as a shock, no warning; the first lick up his pussy has Harry gasping loud.

It’s a singular lap, only a taste, but it’s present and accounted for. Pushed up between his folds, hole to base, and then retracted. The second comes just the same, this time dragging slightly. Louis moans at the same time he does it, and leans in for the third taste with a noticeable fervor, suckling along as he goes. Either cleaning Harry up or simply indulging in the taste of him, either way—Harry’s toes curl hard enough to cramp.

He can’t even remember the last time someone went down on him. Probably not since his last relationship when he was still undergrad, but even then, he doesn’t recall either of his boyfriends back then being this good at oral.

To start, it always felt reminiscent of poking around at himself growing up, curious about that secret place between his thighs, the mysterious thing his teachers had only signified as omega parts in his youth. They’d prod about, only with their tongues, or simply lick over his labia flat without applying much pressure at all, tickling him more than arousing him.

Actively getting into things, there was still… a definitive lack of skill. Not much finesse to the flicks of their tongues, as well as the where, when and how of applying teasing sucks, or knowing when it was appropriate to slip in a finger.

Louis, though, Louis is passionate. Even as he begins with near kitten licks, he makes Harry’s body quake. Especially when he gets his tongue pointed and hones in on that little spot under his cock. Swirling over it in a few tight circles that shoot pleasure sharp through Harry’s belly. Kicking the heat up.

And Harry is behaved, up to a point. He strokes through Louis’ hair, breathes heavy up at the ceiling, tries to keep his squirming to a minimum. The teasing swipes of Louis’ clever tongue make it manageable, at least. It’s when Louis firmly presses his tongue into his pussy, past the silky skin and slippery folds, that Harry has no choice but to surrender to the whims of his pleasure.

“Oh, oh fuck,” he swears, his eyes bursting open wide, his mouth falling into a shocked ‘O’. His brows curve upwards and he pants, starts pushing at Louis’ head, trying to nudge him closer. Probably getting his face proper messy and wet. “Fuck me,” digging his heel into Louis’ back, too, “ha—”

Louis eats messy, but he eats well.

Pushing into the tight, wanting clutch of Harry’s body, he swirls his tongue around as much as he can, burying his hole face into his starved cunt in the process. Whatever will get him that much closer. Moans as Harry leaks tang, supple sweet, straight into his mouth, and greedily drinks him down in turn.

Harry can only try and keep breathing, forcing oxygen into his lungs. All sensation in his body is concentrated where Louis is touching him, tasting him, leaving his nerves singed icy-hot. Too much at once, but exactly what he needs.

Especially when Louis’ grip shifts on his thighs, and there’s a newfound nudging against his hole, only not yet pushing in, too stuffed up with Louis’ tongue.

And when Louis withdraws his tongue, for the split second it leaves Harry untouched, Harry releases a whine pathetic to his own muffled ears. Greedy he is, having found nirvana in Louis’ mouth. Although, Louis seems takes in stride, as he groansright after, right up against Harry’s pussy. Then nudging two thick fingers up against his hole, and slowly sliding them in, not leaving Harry empty for a second longer.

There’s no preamble, no teasing. It’s clear—Louis’ goal is to get him off.

And it goes like this:

Louis’ fingers manage to curve perfectly, pushed all the way to the bracket of his hand, no give to fight against. It’s only two fingers, not the entirety of his hand or several notches on a thick toy or even a real knot, but Harry feels wonderfully filled by them. Perhaps it’s because Louis’ digits are thicker than his are, or he maybe has a better idea at what he’s doing—or it just feels so right because it’s Louis, but whatever the reason, Harry feels delightfully stretched by them.

Louis works them carefully, too. Shows care in his fervor by rocking them forward and back at varying tempos—a few rapid passes, then slowing to stroke, before picking up again—careful not to actually apply too much pressure when he goes fast, or letting up too much when he goes slow. All the while, he stays focused upon the range of Harry’s spot, somehow causing the entire stretch of his hot zone to go alight with this almost electric, tingling sensation, rather than there only being specific safety zones he needs to stay working within—and Harry alerts him of such, thrusting back into the cup of his hand regardless of the motion, and the reach.

All the while, Louis sucks around the rest of Harry’s pussy, tonguing into his nook and suckling around the base of his cock. Even tipping his head to clean the mess of dribbed pre left pearlescent along his hip.

Harry’s not sure if Louis is left between his legs for seconds, minutes, or hours; the world around him slows and all time is is that spent with Louis’ face and fingers buried within his cunt, turning him into a writhing, panting, keening mess.

His hair is certainly tangled, some of it stuck to his dewy forehead and bared throat. Even his hands are slipping in Louis’ hair due to the sheen of salt water washed over the entirety of his skin. There’s no concern as to how he looks now, though; how can he even consider such a thing, with a flood rising fast within his core, threatening to spill over, boiling point close to being reached?

A third finger joins the party, sliding in with Louis’ first two fingers, the three digits lined one next to the other for an even sweeter stretch. At the same time, Louis seals his mouth around Harry’s cock, easily holding it there, cradled in the warm suction of his mouth. Prodding at the head with his tongue, suckling over it. Keeping it warm.

Harry gasps raggedly as Louis swallows around him, so overwhelmed by the abundance of pleasure, he’s not sure whether to push away or try and get deeper. His body is a clenched fist nonetheless; feels like he’s losing grip of himself and has to ball up tighter, less he be melted down or whittled away into nothing, merely a husk of a vessel completely drained under the sinful workings of Louis’ fingers and mouth.

And if that were the case? There’s no doubt through the sugar smoke in his head—it’d be completely worth. No wonder they call it ‘the little death’.

Harry feels the wave building strongly within him, working from the base of his spin upwards, out and then in. It rises and sinks, rises and sinks, a natural push-pull caused by each in-out, quickening thrusts of Louis’ fingers, his wrist getting involved proper now. Working in tandem.

The only sensation Harry is unfamiliar with, is the swelling he feels centered low in his belly, right where the reverberations of Louis’ fingers echo. He feels the need to push down against it, or maybe clench upon it, but is unsure either way of what that would accomplish.

He wants to warn Louis he’s close, and tries to quiet the pounding in his ears, only to find a more distracting ambience in the abhorrent sloppy slide, splish-splash, of his cunt being fucked open. Surely he’s shed half his weight in water by now; he’s never found himself to be this wet, let alone this actively leaking, for any period of time outside of heat.

Hell, this may even rival some of this lighter cycles.

Harry fights though—to sit up and keep his eyes open, so he can alert Louis. At first, he paws at Louis’ forehead, trying to, well, maybe not push him off, but at least garner his attention, get his eyes front and forward, and when that doesn’t seem to be working, he taps him on the back by his heel.

Which—also seems to do nothing, leaving him with only one choice.

“Lou, Louis,” and god, his voice is chewed up; all gravel and stone in his throat, “baby, ‘m, fuck, ‘m close…”

At least he thinks that’s what he said. He can’t be sure. Not even sure he made any legible sounds, until he feels cool air find his cock, shocking him with a wince, and is able to focus his eyes enough that Louis is peering up the long line of his flush body, a grin on his drenched face.

Asks, with just as much raggedness in his own voice: “Gonna squirt f’me, baby?”

And Harry tries to nod, whimpering and perhaps only thrashing about instead. He’s at least going to damn well try.

Louis sits up a little straighter, hence allowing him more space to move. He fucks his hand in fast, hard, somehow sliding his fingertips up the stretch of Harry’s spot, and then back again, working the length of it he can easily reach.

Tells Harry to, “Touch yourself, darling, go on—”

Leaving Harry to get to cupping his tits, pinching at his ruddy, peaked nipples. Taking hold of his cock, warm and slick with Louis’ spit, allowing his palm to slide so easily across it, still laying pinned to the side.

It doesn’t take much at all. The familiar simmering up his spine builds fast. Harry braces for impact, for the wave to wash over and through him, his eyes pinching shut and hand falling from Louis’ head to his shoulder and gripping, carving half-moons into the freckled skin there.

Only—that’s not all there is.

He almost misses it due to all the pounding in his head, the raggedness of his own breathing breaking on an unintelligible moan, but as his orgasm hits him, striking him like lightning, he gushes, hard all over Louis’ wrist and arm.

Harry’s barely catching his breath when he notices, and Louis forces his fingers in with a devilish grin, giving a few quick thrusts that punch the remaining air from Harry’s lungs, eliciting another hard gush from him, squirting right along the bottom half of Louis’ face, down his neck, dribbling watery down his arm.

The force of it causes Harry’s entire body to shake through the aftershocks. Can’t even make a sound, he so stunned—both at the intensity of his climax, practically split into two parts, and at the sheer amount of release that left him, despite his not even trying.

Though, Louis is elated enough for the both of them, it would seem.

“That’s it!” he laughs, elated, carefully withdrawing his soaked hand and showcasing the wetness webbed between his fingers, running clear down his forearm and dripping off his elbow, to Harry. He then reaches out with his clean hand and pets down sweaty, quivering belly with pride. “That’s it, darling…” Kisses Harry's knee, which he then rubs against with his wetted, prickly chin.

Harry’s still left in shaking awe, high strung as he’s been left feeling beached, spat back out. Louis moves his affectionate pets higher, up his chest, dipping into Harry’s body to squeeze one tit, cup the weight in his palm to play with his puffed areola.

Excited to ask, “Think y’can give me another?” just as Harry whines at his nipple being unexpectedly pinched too hard too soon, but he quickly soothes the bud with his thumb, apologetic. “Think you can do it again? Hm, baby? Gush all over be fingers?” with just as much eagerness, only with a softer rasp, soothing and arousing Harry in one breath.

Harry gives him a weak nod. “I can try,” he supplies.

He doesn’t want to disappoint Louis, but—he’s only gotten this down once amongst so many failed efforts. Doesn’t want to make any promises he can’t keep, whether he can help it or not.

Louis grins at him once more. “That’s a lad, me good boy,” he praises, dips in for a chaste kiss Harry is too dizzy to meet with any degree of fervor. Reaches over just out of sight, and Harry can make out the shape of something red and phallic in his hand—oh. “How’s about… we try this on for size?” waving it lightly in the air.

He’s not sure he can handle that after how thoroughly Louis just fucked him open without the aid of a toy, and he opens his mouth to protest, maybe not today, but then Louis grins sharp, flicks the toy on. Hits a button at the base a few times and—it starts to vibrate, a loud buzz filling the room, at the same time it thrusts.

He’s not sure where Louis’ vigor comes from, but Harry is both hopeless and hopeful to join him. Naturally, the only response he can give is pinning his legs up out of the way, and opening them wide once more.

♡

When Harry awakes, he realizes he’s no longer in his bed. He’s too close to the window, too near the floor. The duvet from the bed is draped over him, though, and he finds the sun has fallen farther down in the sky, leaving a dreamy, orange-hued light to spill across the room.

Blearily, perhaps a beat late, he realizes he’s in his nest. Vaguely he recalls the second orgasm Louis helped pluck from his body, this time with the aid of the red dildo he’d procured earlier that afternoon. Harry blushes at the memory maybe an hour or so old, by the tell of the late afternoon sun.

He lay in prime presenting pose while Louis situated behind him, stroking down his back and thighs and bum, fondling his softened cock and teasing his nook, his arse hole, while Harry fucked himself on the toy until he had, finally made himself burst open, squirting warm and wet down his own thighs until he collapsed uselessly onto his back, partially in the puddle he’d just created.

(Before, insatiable thing, he’d beckoned Louis to crawl over him, so he could use the toy on him, too.)

He’s not sure how either of them had the strength to fall into his nest, but surely, when he turns to his right, Louis is there, half tucked under the duvet, snoring softly with his body turned towards Harry. Purring just softly enough, Harry has to duck down and lay a kiss to his temple.

Underneath their bodies, tucked amongst the skewed pillows and plush blankets, Harry finds his crewneck from earlier in the day peaking out from under Lous’ shoulder, as well as his panties fisted loosely in Louis’ hand—unsurprising—whereas Louis’ shirt is wet with his own drool—oops—under his belly.

Harry brushes his hair from his face to cast his gaze upon Louis’ slumbering form once more. Takes in the the curve of his sharp cheekbone, and the inky brushstrokes of his lashes fluttering. Decides that they should both get some more rest before any speaking happens, which it surely will.

Yes, conversations of the important variety will be had, maybe situated on the sofa dressed while only in their underwear, or maybe leaning into each other under the hot shower spray, their hands slippery with soap.

Though, as Harry snuggles back down under the duvet and curls into the sleepy warmth of Louis’ chest, he has a hunch, as Louis’ arm automatically comes to circle ‘round his back and pull him close, that they will speak on things while wrapped up snug in his nest, sharing body heat and sticky skin, just like now.

And he also has a very good feeling, his hope fully blossomed into a confident, flowering stalk—that it will certainly not be the last time.